PotC: The Briar and The Rose
by princessebee
Summary: Beginning thirteen years before the events of Curse of the Black Pearl, it follows the relationship between Barbossa and a whore who lives on Tortuga, Evie. Through her, we learn of Barbossa before the curse takes place and how it changes him. COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

Were your ship the sort that made berth in the port of Tortuga, then it's likely that what you beheld there would be little surprise to eyes that no doubt had beheld a similar sight on many occasions previous and many yet to come. As your ship drew into the docks, there would be no docksman waiting to charge you for the pleasure on the cracked and rotting planks of the wharf, waiting with greasily shining eyes to take count of your stock and name his percentage for being so kind as to permit you to redistribute them to the merchants waiting beyond. Indeed your only welcome cheer would come from the dock rats, squeaking in anticipation and scuttling amongst the decaying carcasses of fish and other sea creatures, discarded by those too drunk to finish them. Sometimes such an unfortunate diner could be spotted lying amongst the ragged fish guts, dropping suddenly stone cold dead in the midst of an alcoholic haze, his fingers and eye-sockets being dined on by those rodents, large as cats and twice as ferocious – once or twice it had even been sighted a skinny feral cat getting chased down by a couple, rancid teeth bared, when the fishy pickings were slim.

But if such a reversal of roles seems perverse, then gird your loins and steel your soul, for such perversity is the natural spawn of the port of Tortuga. Clamber across the slimy piers, slippery with seaweed, blood and the vomit of drunken sailors and mind where the tread for the moon rarely shines here and when it does it is only as the sickliest of slivers that does little to light your way. The air is cloying and evil-smelling with all the putridness that could come out of a man's belly and hazy with the smoke of fires and of pipes clogged with foreign weed, but the docks are abandoned at this early time of the morning – the far horizon is glimmering grey, and peach – a pretty colour to peek at such a damned spot.

Follow then, a path worn into the un-paved road by the eager footsteps of many bow-legged sailors, up along the beach to Tortuga itself – a tumult of sound and light that cracks the rusty night in debauched celebration. Here, where the beach ends and the taverns and inns begin, the artificially constructed shape of female figures sashay into view, backlit by the fierce orange of the taverns' cheery lights. Impervious they are to the shouting and fighting that carries on with reckless abandon behind them, tucking stray locks up behind their ears, and readjusting their bodices ever lower at the sight of fresh bait. Their faces are caked white to both enhance their beauty – though amongst many it is quickly fading – and to hide the yellowish pallour many must bear after so long working seaside, and their lips are painted a vivid red to recall you to mind of what similarly panting lips lie beneath their skirts.

They call their wares to those who move unwary amongst them:

"Hey ho, there sailor, I could suck the very oceans dry"

"If it's a rocking you fancy, then forget the sea and come with me upstairs, darling"

"You look like a chap with a mind for treasure, how about you have a look at the jewel I've hidden in my petticoats?"

And on and on with ever increasing ribaldry.

The chubbiest whores flaunt their rippling curves in the scantiest of costumes for if they've got money enough to dine so well, then they must be good at their work and sure enough one by one they are chosen and retreat to some quiet nook, whether beneath the piers for a tumble of but a minute or two, or to some slightly more refined quarters, such as a room in one of the boarding houses, where things could carry on all night. But there is one skinny beauty who never finds herself hungry and she has just come up from the docks, her latest customer already having tottered away, satiated and ready to drink himself fully into oblivion.

"'Ow was that then, Giselle?" One dark-skinned nymph jeered to the slender blonde as she rejoined her companions.

"Didn't you 'ear? My screams shook the very night!" She retorted in similar fashion and their laughter was conspiratorial.

"Well, best recover yourself, my darling, for the night ain't over yet!" With a nod, the dark girl gestured to the brimming taverns, in which a thousand more men were whetting their desire.

"Naw, that's it for me tonight I'm afraid ducks. I've 'ad it. Ta-ra!"

The other whores nod their farewells and Giselle begins her weary way to the place she calls home, a tiny room in a boarding house only a few streets up – always best not to be too far from the docks in Tortuga, for it is in those taverns the best pickings are always to be found. The streets of Tortuga have no pavement, nor pavings, being naught but tightly packed dirt, and they are littered with all manner of sewage and rubbish, giving off a grimy haze several feet above the muck around which one must carefully negotiate. Giselle knows her way well, even as sleep threatens to claim her in mid-tread, and keeps clean boots. At frequent intervals, pools of blood and alcohol join the garbage and dogs run barking and fighting for the tastiest scraps while cats screech and yowl above, their yellow eyes burning before they pounce. Sailors of ill-repute and known pirates clank tankards and dance clumsily to the rotten sounds of accordion thrusts, bellowing the words to songs they do not know, or have long forgotten, their tanned and muscled arms, patterned in rough blue tattoos in sharp contrast to the bellies paunched by rum and beer as they turned and whirled in joyous haze.

Giselle makes her way amongst these unsavoury characters, many of whom she has already bedded at least once this month, down a filthy mess of twisting streets, lined with hunchbacked squats and teetering edifices, storey after storey rising so high in the effort to cram ever more whores and sailors in that they would almost meet in the middle of the street, so precarious was their tilt. The temporary residents on either side could shake hands – or jump across, if such an occasion was called for, as it rather frequently was. The door she lets herself in is set in a comparatively impressive frame, gnarled wood carved in the fashion of voluptuous mermaids and water nymphs, offering salacious wares to hungry sailors and the boarding house is similarly impressive, huge and looming over the cramped streets it sits in the middle of. Inside, it is dark, most of its residents already gone a-bed for the night or entertaining some long-staying customer still, and the great hall is completely bare – no bother with decorating the least used part of the house in frippery. At the foot of the rickety, thin little staircase, sits The Captain, with his little toll box gripped tight in one bony claw although his head is tipped back against the panelled wall and a long stream of yellowish saliva dangles from his jaw and pools upon his ragged overcoat. The Captain lost both his legs in what he claims was a battle with The Kraken but which Giselle reckons was more likely to be a shark, one of the really big ferocious ones, and in her mind that's easily as bad as any sea beast or lore, having seen sharks only as the carcasses some fishermen bring ashore. His misshapen stumps poke out over the edge of his chair, twitching involuntarily now and then, the only indication he is even alive. Above him, nailed into the wall, is a little placard that reads:

'Ladies wishing to take sailors upstairs must pay for their rooms in advance'

"'Ard night for you then Capt'n'" Giselle remarks dryly as she mounts the unreliable staircase and commences her careful journey up. As she ascends, she catches sight of the revolver clutched tight in Captain's other hand – should any feckless visitor be so brave and foolish enough to try and break the grip on the toll box. One fellow had, once, and lost his hand for the trouble.

Up and up she climbs, growing ever more weary the higher she gets. The higher rooms are not so damp, of course, and are larger, but for pity's sake, she hates it so at this time of the day when her body is ready to drop and she can feel the cold trail of her last customer's spendings sliding down her thigh. Finally, she reaches her floor and with open relief moves toward her door, shut tight and dark beyond. The one next to it is open a crack, a warm trickle of light barely illuminating the corridor and in curiosity, Giselle pauses and then raps at it with raw knuckles.

"Evie? Evie, you in there?"

"Yes luv, come on in."

Giselle pushes the door open wider, golden light spilling into the slate blue of the dark stairwell, and beholds her friend, red hair lit gold by the light of her candles, sitting in the middle of her lurid four-poster bed and counting the night's spoils in between sips of gin. Not a very good night compared to a usual one for Evie, it looks like at a glance.

"Lawks, darlin', I thought you was being robbed."

"Naw, ducks, the bloody catch on the door is loose again. I've got to wedge the bloody chair against it to keep it shut when there's a biter up here. Not good for a fast escape, eh? Captain knows, the old bastard, but he won't do nothing about it." The whore's face wrinkled for a second before clearing once more. "And how was your night my darlin'?"

"Awright, could've been better but I can't be buggered staying up any longer. What about you, going back out again?"

Evie blew a great gust of breath out her round mouth. "I don't reckon I can, though I know I should." She finished counting and swept the coins into a threadbare silk purse, stained with the passage of time and fraying at the corners. Both Giselle and she knew that she'd wait for Giselle to leave before hiding it – friends though they be, such friendships are better not tempted too sorely. "Got to keep something for tomorrow night." And she offered her friend a lazy wink. "Have a drink if you fancy, ducks." Nodding to the bottles on the little table nearby, one with its stopper out and a couple of glasses waiting palely nearby. Giselle shook her head and pushed her hands through her straggly blonde hair. "Naw thanks, I've got to go or I'll drop. I'll see you at the Docks tomorrow?"

Evie nods and smiles grimly "Nothing could keep me away from that rum lot, least of all when they've 'ad a lot of rum!"

With a chuckle Giselle let herself out, pulling the door shut behind her and then slamming it again and once more, trying to get it to hold. Finally, she gave up, cursing quietly, and moved away towards her own room, where Evie can hear her shuffling around, undressing, depositing coins in some secret hiding place, and squatting over her pan. Finally, the creak of the bedsprings and the extinguishing of her lamp as Giselle retired for the day. Still Evie did not move to secrete her earnings – no not for a good half hour and she could be absolutely certain Giselle was asleep. Over-cautious, perhaps, but Evie only needed to learn a lesson once to remember it always and she had been robbed before.

Instead she slid off her four-poster bed and carried her gin glass over to her dressing table where a cloudy mirror threw back a skewered vision of herself. The good mirror – the one that had cost her almost an entire week's wages made during a pauper's twist – was fixed above the bed, at an angle. She'd bored a hole in either corner of the frame and knotted twine through them which she'd affixed to metal pegs hammered into the plaster wall – it was a touch her clients appreciated when they were sober enough to manage it and she knew there weren't many other whores out there who'd thought of it – or who would be willing to spend the money on such an extravagance. Though her eyes were shadowed with tiredness, she was pleased with what she saw there. Not yet out of her teens, Evie was a beautiful, if unusual looking, girl and took great pains to keep it that way. As with the mirror, as with all the furnishings in her dim little room, Evie was prepared to spend the money to protect her income, an insight that seemed to escape many of her sisters and although she called them sisters, she was not prepared to share all of her secrets if they could not be deciphered at a glance.

Here on Tortuga where the currency was so much that which had been plundered, pillaged or pilfered and was therefore of a great diversity in origin, it was generally understood that five pieces of brass or copper were equal to one piece of silver, and five of silver equal to one of gold, but the whores of Tortuga had devised their own system of payment. The sailors and pirates who came ashore were not always up on their luck – they might come in completely empty handed, or with pockets literally bursting with spoils. Work was never short for the whores of Tortuga, for even skint sailors yearned to plunder the depths of a woman after so long at sea, but one had to be careful not to price oneself out of the market. Hence, if the gents who came ashore had been in a 'pauper's twist', it was one piece of copper or brass for a tumble under the docks and two to come upstairs for the hour. If they'd had a 'turn of fortune' the cost was again one and two – but in silver. And finally, and most desirably of all, when they'd 'ransomed off the King' the fee was gold. In the strange way the Powers decreed, you would often get a run of the same lot at a time. Worse for the pirates, many of them threw in their lot for fortune and their only payment was whatever they took from the winnings. Blackbeard was the only Captain sailing at that time who offered his crew an actual daily wage. His men were always inclined to be generous, when they came around – and it helped that Blackbeard also gave them a flask of rum per day – a lubricated tongue makes the fingers slippery, as Evie's old mum used to say. But Blackbeard's crew were an exception and yes, although there was never a night a whore of Tortuga went home penniless, sometimes it was only just.

So Evie would hoard her gold and silver away, in the soles of her shoes and the false bottom of her little chair and in the top of one of her four posters, the curved head of which lifted neatly out – the bed had been there when she moved in, and she did not know how this had come to be or if the resident before her, who'd died in that bed, had even known about it herself. And when the ships came ashore, bargaining off their stolen wares for currency they could have a better use for, she would take a fat little purse down to the docks and invest it in her business. First had come the linen for her bed and its damask and velvet hangings. The bed, she knew, was the most important of all and needed to look inviting, and with the addition of a few pillows and an extra mattress or two to thicken out the sunken one bequeathed to her with the room and the bed, it looked fit for a King's Mistress, she reckoned. She couldn't know that the excess of reds and pinks looked only vulgar, especially with the mirror, and like that of any London brothel's, but nor could her customers, and the effect came off altogether well. The canopy hid the cracked and leaking ceiling and she could draw the curtains around the bed and create a new world of perfume and soft flesh. She bought new linen as much as possible, so she did not have to endure the same slimy sheets night after night, but could change them once or twice a week and pay Captain's Missus to wash them for her. A mish-mash of oriental rugs lined the age-worn panels of her floor so that not an inch of the ugly, stained wood could be seen – when Evie first took over this room, a huge blood stain had smeared the floor, right in the door way. Now it, and all other manner of sins, vanished beneath the weave of those carpets on which stood her dark wooden dressing table, taken from the cabin of a lady on her crossing, sadly way-laid and her journey through life abruptly halted, with its matching chair and sideboard, on which she lined up glass decanters of alcohol she kept regularly topped up from the cheap rubbish stocked in the taverns. The silver tray they rested on was spotted with age and the crystal wear she served them in was cracked in more than one place. But the look was the thing and she knew well enough to know there was nothing else like it on Tortuga at least. A hulking great wardrobe stood in front of the window, occupying the last gasp of space in the little room, for she had no need for the view in the evening hours and certainly no use for the sunlight during the day, where precious hours of sleep were snatched. Everything wretched on the walls that could possibly be covered, with a fan or a painting (lascivious of course), duly was and the whole effect, though patched, was one of comfort and decadence the likes of which most pirates and sailors had not seen for many months – or years. Finally there had come the mirror, just a few months ago – it had been a true extravagance at a time when no one but this ship had showed up with anything for their troubles and though she'd paid so much she'd had to offer her services to seal the deal, but it had been worth it in the end. The word would spread about the red-haired whore with the mirror above her bead and the breasts of Venus and the men would come. With the final touch of sandlewood incense and the glow from an iron, free-standing candelabra, the picture was complete and as perfect as she could make it.

This had been the work of years for her, of working long into the morning and saving with a savage wretchedness that had seen her smothering hunger with gin and coca leaf and even occasionally submitting to things she would rather have not for the promise of an extra piece of gold.

And it all had worked. Evie had enjoyed great success on the shores of Tortuga, not just for her hard won skills between the sheets, but for the 'touch of maidenly refinement' she offered.

But her clientele was changing, with her eighteenth year, and Evie knew she was going to have to rethink a few angles in order to stay on top of her game. Soaping up a sponge in her wash-basin to wipe the last traces of make-up from her face, she studied herself critically.

The face that peered out before her from the rippling glass (would it be worth a few extra coins for a better mirror?) was elfin and high-cheeked, with almond-shaped, slanting eyes and overly-full lips. Until recently her eyes had been too large for her face, adding to her youthful appearance, but with her rapid maturity they had grown into her, adding to her change in fortune. Standing at a mere five feet, her caramel coloured skin and Oriental features were confused by her red hair and the blue-grey shade of her eyes. Evie was a mongrel, and such exoticism was usually worth extra notice but she'd have more clients amongst the dark-skinned lot if only she were the quintessential English Rose, like Giselle, or more amongst the whites if she were true black, like Jasmine. But she was not – she was Evie, the little mutt, and she made the best use of what she had that she could. Finishing with her wash, she smoothed thick cream against her skin, filling the air with the scent of rose and lavender, and massaged it deep into her pores. Then she opened a little pot and scooped up a fingerful of a thick, whitish liquid and scrubbed it into her teeth. An Oriental customer had taught her the recipe – it required rock salt, mustard seed and pepper – and she used it twice a week and thought the results well worth the bleeding gums. Her teeth were yellowed only slightly and she had them all without rot and that was of great value indeed – it kept the look of the worn and beaten from her demeanour.

Standing up and out of her dressing gown, she soaped down her whole body and then rubbed the cloyingly-sweet smelling cream into every inch, stopping at regular intervals to slurp down great gulps of gin.

Her figure was splendid, gifted as she was with the full bloom of youth. Her breasts were large and perfectly shaped, her waist nipped in then burst out again for generous hips. Her bottom and belly were both gently rounded and in the Turkish way she carefully sheared off every curl of hair that sprung below the neck. However, her body was the cause of her change in fortunes, unbelievable though it may be. When she'd taken up the game at age thirteen, when her mum was simply getting too old and sick, skilled or not, to bring in what she used to and a second income was needed, they'd lamented her childish figure – the flat bosom and straight hips. Her mother's Turkish blood should've gifted her with greater voluptuousness, but it seemed her father's Irish would win out instead. Conversely, they discovered this was the secret to Evie's initial success – there was more than one man out there with a passion for youth a little beyond the acceptable and even as Evie got beyond thirteen that childish figure and elfin face ensured she passed for thirteen well enough for new customers in addition to prolonging the fantasy for the old. Evie knew well enough to know this would not last forever and so she had resolved not to trade solely on her delayed blooming, sharpening her skills with the help of her mum and her mum's friends, and adding her own touches in presentation besides – and she had done well to do so, for her eighteenth year had brought on a much delayed growth spurt that seemed to make up for its tardiness by happening in a matter of months. All of a sudden, Evie's hips widened and blossomed, and her breasts burst up like ripened apples. She even grew a few more inches and her little face fleshed out and matured, and one by one her old regular clientele was dropping off and she was left to the business of rebuilding. It was only a matter of time, she knew, but the time in between would be rough. She was already beginning to learn that her new customers preferred a lock or two of curly red hair upon her nether regions, indeed coveted a glimpse, but it was so much easier to keep free of crabs and lice without... What she could use right now is a pirate ship full of gloating, swag-laden rascals, just aching to spend their hard-fought spoils on a curvy little exotic.

Whoring was Evie's business. She had not fallen into it by accident or misfortune, not gone seeking her fortune only to be ruined and left with no other option, not trusted a man with her maidenhood only for him to duck out on her when she fell pregnant and was thrown disgraced from her family's door. She'd inherited the trade from her mother who had inherited it from her mother before her and with all that the dozens of tricks and tips that could only come from a heritage of purchasable pleasure. She knew things to do to a body that could make a man swear off God for all time and this wicked knowledge with her innocent youth meant success was hers, no matter her breeding. She considered no shame in it – she made her living honestly and with hard work. She promised a quality service, and by god, she delivered it, though sometimes it left her bone weary and cold as a grave. She'd had men plunder her relentlessly beneath the docks tossing coins disdainfully at her as they turned, their pants barely fastened, to kick sand up with their heels. And she'd had men weep in her arms for the wives and children they left behind, or the sweethearts they'd lost. It was the gentle men she remembered more than the rough, for they left their impressions more deeply – it was always to her, and her sisters, they turned for the answers – cursed women who had never known the joy of being able to hold their head high in polite society or even of knowing their alphabet, but those heartbroken and world weary men thought the whores could tell them what they were ever searching for. All Evie knew, though she never said it, is they would never find it. Her role was to listen, and cradle them against her bosom, and convince them that hour or two was all they really needed to cure them of the world's ills – enough so as they would come back again. Many a vicious pirate had wet her chemise in this fashion. And when morning came and her soul was heavy with the weeping of the world, she would lie between her crumpled sheets and swallow gin until it had countered the effects of the coca leaf she relentlessly chewed to keep her wakeful through the night, and then she would sleep.

As she moved to do now. Wedging her dressing chair firmly under the knob of her door, tight enough so she could turn the lock besides, she then took her little purse of money and clambered up onto the bed, stretching on tip toe, her mind quickened by the coca leaf restlessly convincing itself this noise would say to any eavesdropper she was merely retiring for the night. Carefully hidden in that poster, she relaxed down into the sheets, feverish brain slowly stullefied by the effects of the liquor until at last her eyelids drooped and then shut firmly and her chest rose in slow and heavy motions.

Outside, the rioting and fighting, the screeching and the laughing in the taverns and streets of Tortuga continued, unabated by the rise of the sun.


	2. Chapter 1

The sun rises and sets over the port of Tortuga with its customary regularity but the whores who reside there rarely see all but its first winking greeting at the dawn and its final bright yawn at dusk. The sailors and pirates do their trade by the daylight, bartering their spoils against each other. Of course, many of the pirates preferred to keep the gold and silver and jewels, splitting the treasures equally and each taking his share to some secret hoarding place, but the furnishings and much of the clothing they would sell or trade and occasionally a whore could find a strand of mismatched pearls or small garnet earnings to brighten up her costume. They were clothed entirely in the wardrobes of women despoiled and as such their garments were a motley of finery both extravagant and sedate, everything from Ball gowns to Sunday best in colours from every end of the spectrum. Having belonged to women of less questionable virtue, they all required multiple adjustments to hems and necklines, a shortening of sleeves, an extra flounce or two, but no whore on Tortuga had ever been a seamstress and combined with the smoky taverns, the spills of excess and the rancid brine of the docks worming their way into everything, the fine fabrics quickly fell into deterioration and disarray. There was always an almighty battle over any new frocks that appeared along the wharfs that had more than one girl going home with a swollen lip or black eye. Evie chose to do most of her rummaging in the early Dawn, as the men were just tying up or staggering back from the taverns, when many of the other girls were mugging for one last customer or collapsed in their sunken beds already. A coca leaf tucked into her cheek helped her battle on through the exhaustion and sharpened her gaze for the most suitable of treasures. Many of the whores would leap upon the first thing they saw, not daring to risk it being acquired by another but she always held out for a dress that suited her especially well – that had been made for one similar to her in size and measurements, that was of a cut that most flattered her figure and a colour that best suited her hair, her eyes and skin – green and red were most favoured but pink was always passed over unless it was especially pale so as to make her caramel skin all the more luminous. She searched with equal care for jewellery and it was few trinkets, however dull or plain, that she did not carefully study and assess for potential – in combination with other pieces, even a dusky piece of glass could draw attention to some feature she particularly wanted to highlight – her hair, her throat or, increasingly, her bosom. All of Evie's carefully chosen frocks had required her in the past few weeks to adjust them to suit her newly burgeoned figure, lowering them so that the very pinks of her nipples could be seen, drawing tighter in their waists to emphasise the flounce of her hips – for the first time she was wearing a corset! – and drawing aside the folds and petticoats all the way up to the hips for one shapely brown leg to flash through as she walked. As the modest, girlish gowns gave way to lavish excess so too did Evie's hair fall from a neat, pretty braid to tumbling curls, twisting over her shoulders right down to her waist and the men took notice. Her old customers did not even glance at her now, steering their way to the younger girls who found their way to the docks, but new ones rose in fresh waves to take their place and piracy was at a glorious peak with ever more once honest sailors throwing in their lot for the chance to rise above their circumstances and know the sweet kiss of wealth.

It had been a brisk and lucrative evening and the hidden pocket that rested against her belly chinked in a satisfying fashion as Evie swung her bare legs over the side of a wharf and watched weary men return to their ships. She herself was unable to even conscience sleep, being far too alert both coasting on the success of the night and the coca leaves she had chewed constantly throughout it. The dawn was clambering up wearily over the horizon, spilling pink and purple streaks over the sky and in the far distance, she could see a ship rapidly approaching. It wasn't yet close enough for her to catch the sails or its insignia, but it was a large ship and very grand. Good. More men, more trade, more wares. She'd wait for them to come in and take the best of their pickings then, come the evening, she'd get her money back from all of them. Piqued as she was by the coca leaf her feverish mind was more than ready for such a challenge, to work the docks until no man from that ship had escaped her, even though she knew it was impossible – men's tastes run wild. It drew closer and closer in as the sun rose higher and higher and she could see now that it was painted red, a ruddy colour that caught the sun's glare and made it seem almost as if it were alight. That caused her to sit up straighter. There were not many red ships on these waters and there was only one she could think of that would draw into the port of Tortuga with such determination.

The Scarlet Siren glided on the waters with firm resolve, sure in its every steer, its grand figurehead seeming to guide a path through the reefs. She burst from the bow, a magnificent beast part woman, part fish with coiling serpentine locks, round breasts and a tail that split into three, each ending in a pair of fins. In one outstretched hand she clasped a bloody heart, in the other, which was raised high above her head, she clutched a spear. Her eyes were wild and her mouth was twisted in a battle cry. Painted in all the colours of the sea depths, she glittered like a gem against the red of the ship, only her lips, eyes, nipples and the heart that she proffered that same scarlet hue. Brilliant sails patterned in red and white diamonds billowed proudly and black canons shone like shark's eyes along her side.

The ship of Captain Barbossa.

The sailors and whores who lingered still along the docks had stopped to observe its passage with Evie, but the ship did not draw all the way into the port, preferring instead to drop anchor still a half-mile from shore. Barbossa was known for his caution and he would tie his ship up at no port, he and his crew instead rowing in on the cockboats. He would not risk either his swag or his ship falling at the mercy of invaders, least of all at a pirate port like Tortuga and it was partly this caution that had seen his success on the waters for the past ten years. That and his fearless captaining and ferocious intelligence combined with a head for battle and a considerable lack of mercy. His life upon the sea had already stretched longer than many a pirate's and he was well known on Tortuga for the riches he frequently brought in.

Evie gathered up her skirts and rose, shielding her eyes with one hand to squint at the Siren. She could see the boats being lowered over the side, wares being winched or passed down, a tangled lot of filthy pirates bustling over the decks like ants. On the main deck she could just make out a tall figure of a man, hands on hips and legs astride, observing the hustle. Barbossa. He never came ashore except with the evening, trusting his Bo'sun to carry out his share of the trading. She could make out the Bo'sun now, a huge mountain of a black man, patterned with keltoid scars who had sailed with Barbossa for the past eight years, the longest any man had. The life of a pirate was generally short – though Barbossa's crew were often loyal beyond the usual term, men were frequently lost to sea and battle, illness or even to retirement. But the Bo'sun and Barbossa had long established a partnership that suited them both and worked to their mutual success. Evie had entertained neither as clients before – the Bo'sun preferred the largest women he could find whilst Barbossa's tastes were more diverse, so long as his selected company was a ripened female and not a girl.

The cockboats were fully loaded, both with wares and with men, and they begun their way to shore. The distant figure of the Captain observed them some moments more before turning on his heels and disappearing below deck.

Evie toyed with a lock of her hair, then lifted it to her lips to suck on as Giselle sauntered up to her side.

"Business will be good tonight!" Giselle observed, watching the men draw closer to shore.

"I thought you were abed already, my love." was Evie's reply, her gaze fixed on the place where Barbossa had vanished.

"Off now. Thought I'd stop by the Goose's Breast for a pie and some soup first though if you care to join me."

Food. She hadn't eaten for some two days – the doings of the coca leaf of course – and knew that she should, though she didn't feel hungry at all. She glanced sideways at Giselle, whose red lips were smeared halfway down her chin. There was more than one reason she could take up Giselle's offer though.

"Come here, love," she drew a grimy hanky from her bosom and wiped at the red paint. Giselle pulled a face and raised a hand to rub her jaw.

"Thanks darlin', that's courtesy of the last fella of course. Just wanted a sucking, whined on and on about 'ow 'is wife wouldn't do it for him. Can't say as I blame her. Looked like a fuckin' witch's wart. Well, what you say? Or you going to 'ang around and blow your earnin's?"

Evie's mouth twisted up in a wry smile. "I could earn it all back, ducks, you know that."

Giselle snorted and tossed her head. "Earn back what you spent? Why not make more besides, sweetheart?"

It was the fundamental difference between Evie and others of her ilk and many of the whores of Tortuga. They couldn't understand why she was happy to spend so much more instead of making double. To Evie, however, a brilliant new dress or a special comfort she could offer her customers meant a higher asking price or a greater likelihood a fellow would seek her out again, equalling increased earnings for her – perhaps not immediately, but in time. And Evie was young and could wait.

She tucked the hanky away again and gave her friend a kiss on the cheek. "Awright, my sweet. Let's off to the Goose. Now you mention it, I've a belly for food after all."

"Don't want to lose those pretty titties no sooner you growed them," Giselle laughed. "Come on then."

Arm in arm they turned their back on the sea and made their way toward the filthy heap that was Tortuga but not before Evie cast one last, searching glance back at the Siren, fiery in the morning's glare, its protectress' high breasts and terrible eyes dancing slowly upon breaking waves.

The Goose's Breast was a tiny tavern tucked into a dark corner of the Pleasure Quarter, where the short-stay boarding rooms cluttered the streets and the Maison Rouge, the looming house both Evie and Giselle boarded in, was but a corner or two away. It was frequented only by the working ladies of Tortuga, where they went when they yearned for a rest from the relentless, foul-breathed clientele that littered every other tavern in town. From the outside it looked like nothing but an abandoned shack, a sagging porch barely holding up the weight of its wood and stucco walls, its sign hanging only by one corner and so begrimed nothing but a 'G' and a 'Br' could be made out. Inside, however, it was a warm cozy little place, blessedly quiet except for the friendly chatter of girls gone off their shifts, sharing a drink and hungrily filling their bellies or enjoying a well-earned pipe. Its proprietress was a huge barrel of a woman who went by the name Black Ruth, a matron with a bosom as large and grand as the bow of a ship and a filthy matted head of grey dreadlocks. She'd been a whore on Tortuga for forty-five years before time had weathered away her looks and charm and she'd turned to a lesser profitable but still reliable business. Few whores on Tortuga had something to turn to when their time was up and though more than a few saved their money wisely enough to set sail to more wholesome lands and retire, some even married the most loyal of their customers and were given a home to run, many went down to the docks to die, of illness or old age. Black Ruth was one of the ilk who understood and shared Evie's head for business and indeed, had taught her many a trick that had come in useful.

"Ow's business, poppets?" she enquired with a black grin, her voice deadpan.

Giselle clutched her head in her hands whilst Evie jingled her skirts, a sly smile upon her pretty lips.

"Boomin'" Giselle exclaimed and Evie gave the old woman a wink.

"Back to usual."

Black Ruth guffawed and tugged on a lock of Evie's hair. "Glad to 'ear it. Told you it wouldn't be long. What can I do you lovely ladies for, hrm?"

"You got some leaf for me, Ruthie?" Evie flashed a sparkling smile on the matron whose countenance grew smug.

"Aye, lovey. Aye. I'll wrap it up for you to take."

Even a tavern that turned a tidy business like the Goose's Breast could stand to do a little better and Black Ruth supplemented her income through the sale of coca leaf to the girls and occasional pirate. She sold to the whores at a reduced rate so they favoured her above any other dealer in the port and her stock was high quality – she grew it herself in some secret place, so it was always fresh unlike the imported stuff that could often be entirely ineffective after a long sea voyage.

Now she served up steaming hot eel pies and a bowl of fish soup to the two whores who eased themselves wearily into the hard-cushioned chairs of a small booth in the very corner of the Goose. Evie nursed her usual gin whilst Giselle put back a hot rum and fell to her food with gusto, slurping the thick dark gravy of the pie inbetween famished lips.

'What's on yer mind, ducks?' she enquired between mouthfuls as Evie picked at her soup.

Evie yawned and rubbed at her eyes, smearing kohl across her face. 'Nawt,' she lied, 'just bloody weary after this night. Me cunny feels like it's going to fall out, I swear it.'

'Well,' Giselle took a big slurp of soup. 'You'd best rest up well today for tonight will be another boomer, mark me. Barbossa's boys are always real friendly like and pretty free with the coin. You don't want to miss out on the first night.' Men in port would see whores every night they were anchored, but the first was when they would spend most lavishly and see the most women. It was the best time to snare them, before they grew cautious with their earnings.

"'Ave you seen his men often, then?" The conversation was going exactly along the path Evie wanted it to and she encouraged it further.

Giselle chewed noisily and grinned as Evie finally took a bite of her hot pie. "All of 'em, at one time or another, 'cept the Bo'sun who I'm too skinny for. 'E loves Jasmine but. Pounds her raw ev'ry time 'e comes in. The Capt'n's 'ad me on more than one occasion."

Evie was well aware of this and it had been why she'd agreed to go for an early morning dinner. "I never seen him. Little 'uns don't seem to be 'is type. What's 'e like then?"

Evie had lived a life worth fifty hard years but for all that she was still a girl and one who had never known romance or even the coy pleasure of frolicking without the exchange of funds. Therefore the sailors and pirates who could swagger without being drunk, who commanded their audience without having need to raise their voice, or asserted themselves with merely the slope of their shoulders, could cause her to tremble within. Such a thing was rare to find, being the exclusive domain of the most successful of Captains, but for every one of those were twenty more inept, more full of bluff and bluster who could no more lead a ship than satisfy a woman or hold their own whether in battle, at the card table or in simple conversation. Barbossa was of the other ilk, a man who had been on the sea since a lad, who had sailed the entire world and had steadily risen from deckhand to First Mate to Captain of his own ship, feared and respected by any sailor who knew his contemporaries. Aboard a ship he was a resolute and unflinching sailor who endured the pitiless life of the sea without a whimper but onshore he was given to all the fine excesses life could offer – food, drink, opiates, gambling, treasures and women. Being that up until recently Evie's clientele had been so particular, she had never known him to beckon to her although her eyes were drawn to him whenever they shared the same vicinity. Once he had looked her up and down from across the other side of the Lamb and Flag and she'd flaunted a little, but he clearly found her lacking in his desire and turned to another, Scarlet, with the dark red hair and ample bosom.

Barbossa was the sort who made her blush whenever he came ashore and since she long ago thought there was nothing – _nothing_ – that could possibly make her blush, she found him all the more endearing still. For all she knew of the world, he had a smile that convinced her he knew _more_ and the thought was a thrilling one. That she had never known his touch or the rough thrust of his loins against hers made him all the more mysterious.

"'E's a rum sort" Giselle responded. "Prefers the room to the wharf and will usually buy me supper as well. Generous. A bit bossy but not a brute. Thinks a lot of himself but doesn't show off about it. Knows his way around the hills and the harbour if you get my meaning." She danced her fingers teasingly over Evie's cleavage and they snickered together.

"Saucepot." Evie retorted. "'E likes variety?"

"Loves it. Will give any new girl a go, if 'e likes the look of 'em. You wouldn't of seen him cos he likes tits. But all that's changed now, eh?" Giselle dropped her friend a sly wink and slurped up the rest of her soup. "Whatcha so keen to know for? You fancy 'im?"

Evie returned the query with a sneer. "That sorta thing ain't good for business, m'love. You know that."

Giselle raised her slim hands and sharp shoulders to the sky. "Just askin', ducks. Just askin'."

Black Ruth deposited a neatly bound up oilcloth package of at Evie's elbow and nodded to the girl. "You know what I ask, lovey."

Evie fished into the hidden pocket beneath her skirts and extracted three gold pieces. "Yours, mum. My thanks to you, as always."

Black Ruth turned to Giselle. "For you, poppet?"

"None for me, Ruthie. I've other tastes."

Tucking the package beneath her arm, Evie rose and squeezed Black Ruth's arm in parting before linking elbows with Giselle and heading out into what was now a very bright morning, if the diamond-bright glimmers between the gaps in the roofs above them could tell them anything. Evie sighed and shook her hair out, throwing back her head to a sprinkle of morning dew from a rotting balcony. A perfect end to a perfect night.

Dusk found Evie at the docks, perched upon a whitewashed pillar, flirting against the spray of the sea. She'd woken surprisingly fresh with only the merest glint of a headache that a good swallow of gin quickly abated. It was a new evening, ripe with the promise of success and she'd dressed to suit in red sateen, cut to the nipples and split to the thigh with flounced sleeves that fell off her shoulders and showed off her elbows. The hem was right up to her shins – not simply for wantoness but because it had long become too tattered to remain - and slid a pair of white stockings on to display her ankles. Her hair was loose but for a red silk flower behind one ear and her throat was bare. Evie did not bother much with painting her face – she was still young enough that to do so would be of detriment. She always heavily outlined her eyes in kohl and reddened her lips but worried about little else. The flickering gold lights of the lanterns along the docks hid the stains on her bodice and the holes in her stockings and the flames danced upon her face lending her an otherworldly glow she worked to her favour with a low-lidded glance and coy half-smile. Already she'd been under the wharf with a couple of lads and was waiting now for The Siren's men to row back to shore, ready to spend what they had made that day and won upon the seas in the months previous.

The sun was dipping quickly below the ramshackle buildings of Tortuga behind her, leaving the port already in darkness. Whores gathered around the torches and lanterns that lined the paths, both to better be noticed and catch a little warmth. As men gulped back rum, tore strips off long joints of salted meat and laughed with each other and their female companions, Evie sat quietly, saying nothing to sell herself save for what was spoken so loudly in her stare. Cockboats were drawn up on the sand, ragged men hauling them up higher and out of the tide, fastening them securely to the wharfs. She eyed them off critically. The very air throbbed with their exhilaration as their eyes lit upon the women and they went about the business of securing the boats hastily, keen to secure themselves next.

The whores threw back their shoulders and swayed their hips, smiling the most welcome greeting the men had seen for many a month and with a cheer the pirates stumbled up the docks, arms raised in eagerness. Evie couldn't help but laugh at the spectacle and when a scrappy young man halted suddenly by her side, she punctuated her delight by cupping his cheek. From her position on the pillar she could look down into his boy's face and his eyeline was right at the curve of her breast.

"Hello my darlin'" he met her cheeky tone with a delighted grin. "Missin' yer mum then?"

"If that was the case, I'd not be at your side" the lad retorted. He was skinny and beardless, with a mop of dirty blonde hair and a toothy smile. Rugged though he was, she could see the grease of naivety about his edges and knew he had not long been at sea.

"Not so much a mother's comfort I offer as a dream's!" She agreed. "Men tell tales of the pleasure of a siren's embrace, let me give you a tale or two of your own to tell, my gen'elman. Though from the look of you, the pleasure may be all mine." She slipped an arm about his shoulder, drawing him closer to her.

He beamed, his boys' ego easily flattered. "I knowed you'd be a lively 'un." He exclaimed. She clucked as though complimented and slid a foot up the inside of his trouser. He was hard as a rock and she guessed it would be under the docks with him – but not too quickly. First:

"Looks like you gents had a mightily rewardin' trip this go 'round, bet you was a big help to yer Capt'n there, eh?"

The boy shucked, which Evie almost found charming. "Aye, you be right – we come ashore with a fortune each. I did me part, Bob Milton ain't no coward, and I got rewarded for it besides!"

Well, she knew what her asking price would be at least. Best get him in the mood to share the wealth. From beneath her skirts she withdrew a flask of rum and offered it.

"I could see you was the heroic type." She confided as he eagerly took a large swig. "It's the shape of yer chin, it is. "

He gazed at her, saucer-eyed and she held him in her look, dewy-eyed and compelling. "It is?"

"Yeah. It's got a real Greek jut." She put her head to the side and bit her lower lip. "I sees the makings of a fine man in you, Mr Milton."

The boy blushed again and took another swig. "Call me Bob, won't ya?"

Beyond Bob's head she saw a figure watching them, tall and straight-backed. Her gaze was too intent upon Bob to make their observer out clearly, but he was approaching. Not wanting to loose her sale being distracted by another, she hooked her other arm around Bob's neck and leaned in closer.

"If you insist… Bob." She breathed and the boy swallowed.

"What d'you ask for then?" He stammered.

Just as she was about to answer, a shadow fell over them and Bob was pulled from her grasp.

"Bob Milton, my boy, well done, ye duties be fully filled. Why you be lingering here when there's a whole town ripe for the pickin' from the likes of ye. " The voice silenced the protest that rose to her lips; it was not the timbre of a man to be trifled with. "Run along now, find yeself a drink and a girl and I want not to see ye again until the day we haul anchor, ye understand?"

Bob quickly touched his forehead and stammered. "Aye Capt'n" before stumbling away towards the town, looking back only once with longing at Evie who turned with slow disbelief to the interferer.

Captain Barbossa stood at her elbow, looming above her with a little smile quirking his lips. Barbossa stood at six feet and three inches and made every centimetre count in his bearing. A long, sea-roughened face was not handsome in the traditional way but was instead strong and square-jawed with a long, aristocratic nose that added power and character to his countenance. He wore a full beard, forked, but kept it short and its honey brown hue matched that of his shoulder length hair. Both were beginning to thin and grey with age. His lips were sensual though set with resolve. His most striking feature, however, wee his eyes – a piercing blue, keenly peering out from the yellow that had just begun to tinge the whites – a sharp and intelligent gaze that suffered no fools and betrayed no secrets. Never before had she seen him so close and now his proximity caused a flush to rise up her breast, tinging her cheeks, but she met his eyes with raised brow.

"I 'ope you realise, sir, you just cost me some income." She said, as pertly as she dared. He smiled, a sinister and amused grimace that at once thrilled and frightened her.

"Apologies, lady." His voice was the harsh rumble of a distant storm. "Might I be permitted to make amends?"

Outwardly Evie smiled seductively and maintained her façade but within she trembled. Of all she expected this evening, she had not anticipated this – she had become so used to Barbossa overlooking her for another that despite her recent bloom into womanhood she had expected things would continue as they were. Now, unless she were very much mistaken, her services were being solicited by the very man she never dared solicit.

She cocked her head to one side and dipped a shoulder, the curve of her breast bulging a little harder against the constraints of her bodice. He did not drop his eyes, as most men would, but continued to hold hers in his relentless gaze. "And 'ow would you propose to do that, my darlin'?"

He chuckled, low thunder in her ears. "What would the tribute such a fine young creature be askin' for the pleasure of her company?" He replied, coming directly to the point.

She shrugged, maintaining her flirty nonchalance. "'Pends what you want, really, love. For a tumble under the docks, it'd be one piece –gold. But if you want to come back to my place and get treated more befittin' one of your station, then it's two." Worried suddenly she'd blow the deal, she added with haste: "An' you can stay as long as you like, up there," before cursing herself. She was not prone to being too generous with her favours.

Barbossa did not answer; instead he raised an arm and pushed her hair back over her shoulders. Her lips parted, her mouth dry as she felt his fingers move through her thick locks before coming to rest at the back of her head. He tilted her head back gently, then finally took his eyes from hers and proceeded to roam her body, undisguised lust burning cold fire in their depths. Evie had been similarly ogled in a variety of circumstances, positions and states of undress but there was something in his manner that caused that blush to once again bloom upon her. She hoped it was masked in the dock's half light.

"Befittin' me station, ye say?" He remarked finally, dryly, his fingers kneading the base of her skull softly.

"Well," Her voice was hoarse, "You being such a grand Capt'n and all."

"Come, come, lady. I've twenty years on ye if I've a day. There be no reason to be treating me as a foolish boy or we can be doing no business together. What say you?"

Evie wanted to vanish into the sand, instead she turned her head and pressed her lips to Barbossa's palm, keeping her eyes upon him. "I say, forgive me, Capt'n. Unfortunately I've become too accustomed to boys and scarcely know what to do when faced with a man."

He laughed again, throwing his head back to roar at the night sky, stars now winking down upon them as though sharing the joke. "What's your name, lady?"

"Evie." She had him. "Evangeline. "

"And a fine name it be for a fine lady, Miss Evangeline." His hand dropped from her neck to clasp hers and raise it to his lips, his breath hot upon her knuckles. She felt a clutch in her groin. "Captain Barbossa." He straightened and put his hands upon her waist. "And now, Missy, I'll have you at my service." She suppressed a gasp as he lifted her from the pillar, gesturing then that she should lead the way. She hooked an arm through his and together they disappeared into the twisting streets of Tortuga.

His hands found her waist again as she led him up the trembling staircase of the Maison Rouge, after dropping a copper piece into Captain's little toll box and she shivered with the anticipation. Not every tumble with a customer was a wretched one – many were beautiful, handsome men, many others too knew what to do with a woman's body – but rarely had she felt such a pleasurable thrill guiding a man to her room. As she fumbled with the lock on her door (finally mended after her toll payments rose again) his fingertips found her bare shoulders and stroked them lightly. Inside, a fire crackled brightly in the grate, a full copper pot sitting ready next to it. Evie led Barbossa inside, her smile as warm and welcoming as she could make it without betraying her nervousness. In quick, smooth motions, she moved the pot over the fire then went to the sideboard.

"A drink to make ready your lips?"

Barbossa looked over at her from where he stood, in front of a painting of three voluptuous women bathing, one hand on his hip, that cursedly knowing smile still playing upon his lips.

"Aye, my lovely one. Wine, if ye have it."

She did, but not much. She poured a large glass for him and noted his eyeing of the decanters. He then took his gaze to the whole of the room, a fine series of crows' feet appearing as he narrowed his eyes.

"I thought ye were a newcomer to these parts when I first took note of ye," He said, taking the wine glass from her outstretched hand. "But ye seem to be too comfortably established for that."

She nodded, sipping from her own glass of gin before replacing it on the sideboard, admiring him as he admired her abode. "I was born here." She explained. "And I've been working these past five years now."

He glanced back at her sharply, his eyes flickering over her figure before shrugging slightly and resuming his pace around the room. Not every girl started in her business before she was of age, but nor was it that unusual. Evie's hands went to the fastenings of her bodice, unhooking it in a leisurely, provocative fashion that quickly caught his attention. He leaned against a poster of the bed and watched with contemplative interest as the dress fell from her shoulders to pool in frothy red mounds at her ankles. With just her chemise, corset, petticoats and stockings on she then moved to the hearth where the copper pot was beginning to hiss and sizzle. Using a wadded old piece of flannel to remove it, she placed the pot on the marble top of her washstand, filling the washbowl first with cold water from the jug there, then warming it with the freshly boiled. She turned back to the Captain and approached him with swaying hips.

"Might I make you more comfortable, Capt'n?" She murmured, her hands going to the buckle on his belt. His mouth widened in a grin and he set his glass down, before dropping two gold pieces beside it then thrusting his hands deep into her hair as she set about the task of undressing him.

A top his head sat a large and broad-brimmed hat decorated with a red ostrich feather. His long coat was burgundy with gold buttons and his waistcoat was yellow and red. His white linen shirt was still noticeably white and she thought he had probably changed it before coming ashore – a rare and remarkable care. His breeches were brown as were his turned down boots – buckled also in gold. Around his waist was a purple sash and a broad tooled leather black belt was fastened at the front with an elaborate buckle into which his pistol was thrust. A cutlass was strapped to his side by way of a similarly tooled shoulder strap and sheath. One by one, she unbuckled, unfastened and pulled off each item, laying it carefully aside. His body, as it was slowly revealed, told a hundred sordid tales in the way of scars, curved, long, round – raised or fading. Despite his reputation for excess, he was surprisingly lean and possessed of a firm musculature over his whole figure, the blessings of an active sea life. Blue tattoos twisted their way over his sun-browned arms and chest and she ran her fingers lightly through the hair that coiled there. His grip tightened in her hair and she raised her face to see him watching her, a curious and intent amusement in his eyes, clearly enjoying the spectacle of a young, attractive women relieving him of his garments.

When she dropped his breeches she pressed her body against him and felt his organ, hard and swollen, pushing against the curve of her stomach. His grip tightened again and she stepped away quickly, knowing it was otherwise mere seconds before she lost control of the situation. Taking up the washbasin and a washcloth, she fixed him again with a bewitching smile.

"Let me freshen you, Capt'n. Such a long time at sea must have you yearnin' for a soft touch."

Barbossa's sharp smile told her he wasn't fooled as to her motive, but he acquiesced with a gracious nod, drinking his wine as she soaped and rinsed his body, one hand still toying in her locks. If they came up the room then she always tried to give them a scrub, but had learnt early on it was wiser to make it part of the seduction than just to chuck a rag at them and tell them to get clean. This way she could persuade them it was part of the service, a little extra indulgence thrown in for their coin. Some still resisted, of course, some flat out refused, but if they could be convinced then it was all the better for her. This was why she kept her undergarments on still – the sight of naked breasts bobbing up and down with her movements could inspire them to cut the process short and thrust themselves upon her, rendering her efforts worthless.

Barbossa sighed and let his chin tilt skyward as the cloth moved up and around one leg, then the other. Hot, soapy water was a pleasure few could deny once enjoying it and the luxury of another – of a gentle, caressing hand – distributing it simply amplified the sensation. All the world's sensual pleasures were ones he relished and though his lust was gnawing, having been too long denied, he was content enough to succumb to this simple delight for the moment. But now Evie's washcloth was sliding up his inner thigh, her gaze riveted upon his ample organ, the hot water caressing the shaft, gliding down over his balls. Evie dipped the cloth into hot water once more and wrung it out, once again sliding it over his taut, erect flesh. Glancing upwards she saw his eyes were shut, his lips parted slightly and she blew lightly on the head of his member. It twitched and she smiled, before sliding her lips over the head and down the shaft. He let out a hiss as she continued to suck, enjoying the power of pleasuring this powerful man, enjoying the pleasure of being with a man she desired. She slipped her hand beneath her petticoat and rubbed herself as Barbossa's fingertips stroked her cheek. Her other hand cupped him and squeezed. No sooner had she done so, then she was wrenched to her feet, gasping. Barbossa regarded her with a fierce and covetous eye, gripping her arm tightly.

"All right wench," His voice was thick, intractable, "Ye've fashioned me to yer liking. Now let's off with these trappings and down to business. "

With sudden violence he tore at what was left of her clothing, ripping her chemise from her shoulders and dislodging the corset. Dazed though she was by this passion, it fired her own and when his mouth found hers she responded with fervour. The kiss was ferocious, she could feel the hunger of his lust in the press of his lips, the thrust of his tongue and she strove to match it. His hands clutched greedily at her body, one savaging her breast, the other seeking its way beneath her petticoat to plunge deep.

Her arms clasped his shoulders as her urge rose in waves within her and then she was tossed back, crashing against the mattress of her bed, splayed out beneath the mirror that had cost her so much. Barbossa was on her again, his mouth ravaging first her neck then her breasts, her nipples tingling beneath the caress of his teeth and tongue. He fondled them until she thought she would go mad, every pinch, nibble or lick striking a chord straight to between her thighs, to the bud of pleasure few but she ever touched. She made a grab for his cock but he was already pushing up her skirts, nudging her legs apart, raising his head to place his mouth again upon hers as his organ sought the slick warmth of her.

He grunted and she moaned as they were joined and he slid his hands beneath her, grasping her buttocks to raise her hips and achieve a better depth.

For how long he thrust into her, she couldn't say. She barely cared. His girth filled her deliciously and the push of his hips was practiced and sure. She gasped beneath him and clutched his arse, urging him to push ever harder. Every time she thought he was nearly spent, he grimaced and rearranged her. Evie had been tossed and turned into every conceivable shape in the past, been screwed nearly senseless, had men expend their fury and frustration in a frenzied jabbing but with Barbossa there was a bestial pleasure to it, a wanton giving over to sheer hedonism. He screwed not just to relieve his long-pent up frustration, not simply to spend and be done with it, but for the joy of it, for the absolute and delirious surrender to base instinct and he swept her up into it. Her loins were fiery with ecstasy and though she knew that in this way she could not climax, still it were nearly as satisfying.

She was once again beneath him, her ankles hooked at the small of his back, when Barbossa's pace picked up and she knew the end was coming. He announced his spending with a long, delirious groan into her neck and then slumped, sweating and gasping, upon her. Breathless and dazed, she merely stared upwards at the mirror that threw her reflection back at an angle, Barbossa's inert form stretched upon her. His back was tattooed as well. She ran a hand through his damp hair and pressed her lips to his ear, the shark tooth earing that dangled there piercing her jaw. At this he came back to life, raising himself with a grunt onto his elbows, rolling over sideways to lie beside her, running his rough hands up and over his face before breaking into a laugh, half-relieved, half-delighted.

"Well, Miss Evangeline" he trumped, "I'd warrant that extra gold piece was worth the spendin'."

She smiled and turned on one side to slide an arm over his chest, her breasts pressing against his arm. "I believe you've made your amends, Capt'n."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and snorted softly.

"Fetch me pocket, Missy and make quick about it. Now that I've satiated one hunger, another be a-knawing."

Had she not still been basking in the afterglow of their expenditure, she might've bristled at the command, instead she obeyed, rummaging amongst his discarded clothing until she located the animal skin pouch, heavy with coin.

He fetched a few silver pieces from it and pressed them into her hand. "Go get us a supper, wench. Make it a good supper, mind. No offal or dry potatoes or stale bread. Try the Duck and Swan. Another bottle of wine. Hurry back. I'll have a mind to plunder ye again soon enough. "

Rearranging her skirts and pulling up her dress once more she moved towards the doorway before remembering her secreted funds and turning back to the stranger sprawled against her pillows a note of worry creased her forehead. He caught her gaze and returned it with a sneer. "What be in a whore's room of use to me if the whore be not there? Away with ye now. So long as ye be sharing yer hospitality, ye'll get due respect from me."

She hesitated a fraction longer before turning on her heels and exiting the room, hurrying down the swaying staircase to the streets below. With another man she might've resisted, but there was something in Barbossa's demeanour that made her take him at his word. Dodging the muck of the streets as she darted her way towards the source of the best food on Tortuga, she quieted her fears and hoped she would not return to find herself a fool.

She did not. He was where she had left him, naked and smoking languidly, sipping from the wine glass he had refilled in her absence. He was pleased by the expediency of her return and bid her strip completely before she could dine, running rough, calloused hands over her hips and belly, chuckling in satisfaction. She'd then enjoyed the finest meal of her short life – game hen in lemon and pepper, fresh bread with butter and cheese, a mince of crab and prawn stuffed into an assortment of roasted vegetables and a wine some classes above the cheap vintage she stocked her room with. Barbossa feasted with gusto, wiping frequently at the grease which ran down his chin, taking great swigs of wine and urging her to do same. By the end of the feast she was tipsy as much from the satisfaction of gluttony as from the wine and she recklessly scooped the Captain's hat from her dresser chair and placed it upon her head with a flourish.

"Stand down, you feckless dog, I am the Capt'n of this ship now and you are to do my bidding!" She brandished the butter knife, giggling at her own wit as Barbossa observed her with a small smile and a sardonic eye.

"Is that so?" He enquired, drawing the words into something between a hiss and a growl, piercing eyes widening in query.

"Aye." The brim of the hat slipped down, part-way over her face and she nudged it back before shifting onto her knees and bouncing on the bed. "I challenge you to contradict me!"

With one swift movement he pinned her wrist to the bed, flipping her body backwards in a motion that knocked the wind from her. The hat fell from her head as Barbossa pressed his body against hers, once again hard and ready. She gasped and struggled, suppressing her giggles as his hands tightened around her wrists.

"I declare a mutiny upon this ship, _Captain_" he growled in her throat and she wiggled all the more.

"I resist, sir!"

He snorted and slid downwards, his lips causing gooseflesh to rise on the expanse of her belly. She continued to struggle, highly amused at the sport, right up until the point his tongue flickered against her. Quite suddenly, she was very still indeed.

Some hours later, when she knew Dawn was just beginning its bleary ascent, she watched him get dressed with hidden regret. Now he would go and think no more of her having gleaned all the secrets from her body. There were a dozen new whores on Tortuga every few months. Something always fresh and new to attract his gaze. She sighed and pulled the sheets up higher over her bosom as he pulled on his boots. Not that it mattered. Less complicated this way really. She was doing the very silly thing her mum had always warned her against – getting sentimental over a customer! And she called herself a professional. Still… she couldn't help but be sorry, just a little bit. It had to be better to earn your bread in pleasure.

"My thanks, Miss Evangeline." His voice was throaty and sincere and he bent over the bed to kiss her lips in farewell. She closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, savouring the scratch of his beard against her chin, the brush of his nose against her cheek and the unexpected softness of his lips.

Barbossa straightened to his full height then and put on his hat, arranging it carefully and firmly, once more the imposing pirate captain. He tipped the brim to her then turned on his heel and strode to the door. She steeled herself to watch him exit, to hear the latch click as he left but he paused once there and turned back to her.

"Don't go down to the Docks in the evenin', Missy." The edge of command was back. "I'll be visitin' ye again this night. "

With that he was gone and Evie ducked beneath the covers so as not to catch her smile in the mirror above.


	3. Chapter 2

The dry season came and went and was followed by the wet. Tortuga was suffocated beneath the crushing humidity, beads of perspiration rolling from her every crack and crevice, the hinges on all the doors cracking as their structures swelled with bloat. Tempers ran higher – higher than usual. Evie had talked her way out of more than one tricky situation this month, but not all of them. One fellow had decided her price was too high and grew furious upon her insistence, finally forcing himself upon her and storming out afterwards – leaving her nothing. There was nothing she could do about it, apart from mend the rip in her dress and work a few hours extra to make up for what she lost.

It was mercifully cooler in the evening; especially down by the docks but during the day the heat sometimes made it difficult to sleep. Often she would drink until she completely passed out, slumbering naked on the floor, head on a pillow, then arising somewhat later than normal and having to hasten to get ready. The whores wore less and less; forgoing dresses altogether for not much more than their underpinnings, dressed up with feathers and lace.

The weather was on the fringes of becoming more bearable as Evie dressed one damp, limpid evening and let herself out the front door of the Maison Rouge and picked her way through the muddy streets. Even the merest foot wrong could land one knee deep in muck at this time of the year. The villains and sailors kept to the taverns and then so too must she and it was to these she made her way now. First stop would be the Smoky Dragon, a cavernous pit of a place that served food, ale, rum and had lodgings up the back – everything a sailor or pirate caught in a storm could want, save a warm female body – but the women were drawn to the men and so the Dragon was the perfect abode with the showers coming every half-hour.

She'd rounded the corner of Cross St, stepping over an unconscious drunkard and his whimpering dog, and had the Dragon in her sights, a welcome haze of ruddy light and flickering action, snatches of rum songs billowing up like bubbles in the distance, when a whistle drew her to a halt.

As a hot shower began to pour down with sudden ferocity, Evie turned to see Jasmine, plump and gorgeously dark, beckoning her from a dingy porch. Hands over her head to shield herself as best she could, Evie darted across the sodden road to huddle there with her.

"What's news, Jas'?"

"De Siren weighed anchor 'bout ten minutes ago. Word is, de Capt'n off to de Duck an' Swun. Tawt you wan' know."

"You're a doll," Evie placed a kiss on Jasmine's round cheek and pressed a coin into her hand. "I 'preciate that."

The rain pummelled down still, turning the streets of Tortuga into a filthy brown river, but Evie was loathe to wait and she turned back the way she came from, retracing her steps in a splashing, stumbling dance, finding sure purchase on stone steps and rotting porches as often as was possible. She paused just long enough in a leaking tunnel to tear her petticoat off and, using it to shield herself from the elements, continued, ignoring the jeers and taunts the pirates let up from their dry nooks as she went past.

Black Ruth let out a guffaw at the sight of the sodden whore who slumped in relief against the door of the Goose's Breast.

'Now, I knows you like yer leaf, love, but didn't think you was that desperate."

"Apples, mum" Evie responded, curtly. "You got any?"

Ruth shrugged. "A few. Was going to do pig tomorrow. Your Capt'n back in then, eh?"

"That's the word." Evie wrung out her petticoat and shook out her hair, letting loose a miniature shower of her own on the tavern floors. "I'll 'ave six. Green."

"Evie's got an eye on the Capt'n's treasure!" a titter went up from a nearby table and she responded with a rude gesture.

"Go fuck yerself, saucepot. I don't see anybody else been doin' it lately."

The other whore responded by throwing a crust of bread Evie's way but her attention was already focused on the bar, where Ruth was returning from the storeroom.

"Awright, lovey, here you go. Only 'ad five green so one's red. You'll just have to make do. " Black Ruth's voice was even, her tone expressionless but the flicker in her eye said more to Evie than any intonation could.

She slapped a few coins on the table and swept up the small sack.

"I'm just protectin' me income." She said defiantly.

Ruth shrugged, her face blank. "I didn't ask, ducks."

The Duck and Swan was smaller than the Smoky Dragon and it had no lodging rooms, but it was by far the grandest tavern in all of Tortuga with the best in feasting to be had. The more refined gentlemen amongst the scoundrels that made berth in Tortuga were its regular clientele and women were allowed only if they could behave themselves. No frolicking in the booths, no dancing on the tables. Barbossa visited it to dine, for the quiet and for the quality of the food but would not often stay longer, preferring the less restrictive environs of the rummer houses to make merry in. But even more he preferred to feast well then shack up for the night with the sort of company he had not known for the long months at sea and make merry as he would in any taverns, but without the foul stench of other men, only the sweet perfume of a woman's naked breast. Since that first night she'd entertained him, Barbossa had returned to Evie's room each time The Siren was in the harbour and she was intent to keep him coming back. This was now his fourth call into Tortuga in ten months and she had things well in hand. The only thing she could not risk was being with another gent when he arrived and missing him – for his loyalty would not stand the wait and he would choose another girl to keep him company. It had happened one or two nights during his stays, but she couldn't expect anything else.

Apples back in her room, changed into a dry dress and her damp hair twisted up into a messy chignon, Evie was scurrying toward the Duck and Swan in less than ten minutes, trusting it was not too late.

Its small quarters were packed to the brim with those seeking shelter from the rain, though it had since abated, and the humidity sent the steam rising from their damp clothes to clog the air. Evie pushed her way as delicately as she could through the tightly packed crowd, the tipsy chatter all but drowning out the screech of the fiddle. The Duck and Swan was not the usual haven of quiet murmurings this night. She pushed and squeezed and rose frequently upon tiptoe, but petite as she was it did her no good and by the time she reached the bar there'd been no sign of him.

The publican grinned at her in between pouring drinks and she ordered a large gin. A shout behind her and a wave of drunken sailors, unsteady on their feet, pushed her hard up against the bar.

"Oy!" She shrieked. "Get off me ya great lummoxes!"

The men swayed, the weight of one throwing off the others and she swore in fury as her breasts were crushed. The melee passed, chanting a ridiculous song, save for one who caught her predicament and came forward, slapping his rum bottle on the bar and lifting her high into the air to place her beside it.

"Sorry 'bout that, young missy!" He exclaimed, an expression of stricken inebriation upon his face. "Youse so little there we missed ye altogether. Well worth the catchin' though. Can I buy ye a drink by way of an apology."

Evie was not stupid enough to knock back a clear sell just yet and she quickly regained her composure, smiling as though nothing whatsoever could vex her.

"'Ow could I say no to a strapper like yourself? Rescued me, you did! I thought for sure I'd be squished!"

"T'were nothin'!" He shouted back over the roar. "Any genel'man would do same!"

He shouted for the publican's attention and with him so distracted, she used her new perch to scan the crowd.

There! At a table, in conversation with foreign men she did not recognise, far over to the left. A plate with the bare scraps of what had been a fine meal was before him and he was wiping his fingers off, a laugh on his mouth. She smiled to watch him, the dark humour that ever creased his brow, the confident set of his back, before catching herself and turning back quick to her newfound companion. She was here by coincidence, and nothing more. The right place at the right time. And now, up here on the bar, one of only a handful of women scattered in a sea of men, she was sure to catch his eye.

She chinked her glass against the young man's and feigned interest as he dove into an account of his last six months at sea. Now and then she dared a quick glance in Barbossa's direction, but his attention was ever fixed upon his own companions and she was beginning to grow desperate, wondering how she might put herself more obviously in his path when she raised her eyes once more only to find his upon her. And she realised he'd known she'd been there for some time.

She blushed and the smile on his lip matched the one in his eye. He regarded her for a long moment, head cocked, before gesturing to her with a jerk of it. She'd been summoned.

"'Scuse me, darlin'" she said to the sailor as she slid off the bar, ignoring his confused enquiries, and vanishing into the crowd. She could no longer see him once within its press so crossed her fingers and instead raised her eyes to the ceiling; to the low-slung candelabra she thought was the one that hung above his table.

Emerging finally on the other side of the rank odour of a hundred unwashed bodies, she beheld him, feet up on the table, smoking his pipe with one arm folded across his chest, lace sleeve grazing his reddened knuckles. He did not look at her straight away and she lingered – were they doing business of a type? Upon the table there was a small carved wooden box and a purse and the other pirates – swarthy Indian men in brilliantly coloured robes – wore grave countenances.

Sidling quietly up to him, she slid her hands over his shoulders. Still he did not acknowledge her but bared his teeth in a shark's grin at his companions before leaning over to draw the box to him with long fingers.

"Gents, it appears time has come for me to be off. Pleasure doing business."

His hand was arrested by the coal black, heavily ringed one of one of the Indians who fixed his gaze, black as onyx, on Barbossa's face. Evie felt a tremble pass through her.

"Have a mind for what I have told you, sir. "

She could feel his shoulders stiffen beneath her hands and knew he did not like the man's liberty of touching him. Wrenching his hand free he defused the tension with a dismissive chuckle. "Gents, t'were not through imprudence I've kept me station these ten years past. I thank ye – and bid you farewell." Not, Evie noted, goodnight. Standing, tucking the box beneath one arm and encircling Evie with another he turned his back on the Indian pirates, who watched their retreat silently.

Back in the room the mysterious box was forgotten as she fell into his arms and the heat of his kiss, his rough hands and lips blazing their mark upon her flesh. The first time was always frantic, furious and almost violent. Then he would become more languorous, more generous with his affections, kissing every inch of her until she was delirious with sensation. Up against the door he had her now, rattling the hinges until the plaster above the doorframe cracked. She did not notice; he gnawed at her neck and grasped her buttocks, keeping her aloft at his level. She did not bother with the ceremony of bathing him now, but he would request it from her after his first spending. Barbossa was a man who took care with his appearance.

He helped himself to wine and noted the apples with a laugh, taking one and tossing it in the air to admire its shiny flesh. Evie, from her place on the bed, stared at the mysterious box that lay on the washstand. It was of a dark red grainy wood, highly polished and intricately carved – from where she lay she could make out all manner of strange creatures dancing out of the depths of the wood. Serpents with wings and a lion with the head of an eagle and others she could not make out. As she stared at them they seemed to ripple and sway, almost rising up and transfixed, she moved forward to lift the box and examine it closer. Barbossa's large hand clapped down on hers even as her fingers grasped the corners and she started.

"Now, now, m'love," He purred with unsmiling eyes. "Such is not for the likes of ye. Keep yer interests to the carnal lest ye be taken captive by that which ye can scarcely understand."

Was he insulting her or cautioning her? "What is it?" she queried, trying to keep the note of petulance from her voice. Barbossa kept her hand in his, pushing her back onto the bed.

"It's a box." The tone of his voice was final but she persisted.

"I know that. What I mean is, what's it about?"

"Come, come Missy." He thundered. "Don't be a-vexin' me. It is a box, one I have long coveted, and that be all ye need to know. If I see ye near it again this eve, ye'll get a hidin'."

Was it his inarguable instruction or the strange intrigue of the box that kept her bewitched? She could not draw her eyes from it, but strained to see, in the dim candlelight, if the creatures really were writhing and snapping at each other, or if it were merely a trick of the light. Barbossa broke the spell abruptly by dropping his hat down upon the box and turning to take her face in his hands, his vivid blue eyes inscrutable.

"Trouble ye mind no more about it, pet." He murmured. "Turn a mind to ye duties and remind me why it is I return to ye."

Later, they lay on the bed, she curling her fingers in his chest hair, he cupping one of her breasts.

"Twenty-seven years I've been on the sea" He answered the question she'd asked, his eyes shut.

"Lord a'mighty! That don't leave a lot of room in life for a sweetheart!" She exclaimed and he laughed softly. Did he realise she was fishing?

"I were married." He stated it simply and she turned her head to look up at his face. "Off this blasted place to be joined in wedlock is simply what must be undertaken by a man, if he to be expectin' a warm place to hang his hat upon his return from travels. But I confess I were young. I would not do same again now, not for any woman. Asides, it has been more than ten year since I returned to the place of me birth. The sea be me true home, and me true love now. Cannot bear to be parted from her more than a few days, which ye must already know." His smile was gentle and she knew his amusement was directed inwards. And she could not help but ask:

"Did you love her?"

A chortle escaped the back of his throat.

"Aye. I loved her with all the misguided passion of a boy, though it surely helped me affections that she did not object to me long absences, like the wives of other sailors did. We wed when I had already been a seaman for eight years, though I were but one and twenty, and could sorely be expected to change me habits. But I loved her, and I kept upon me a miniature of her likeness for many a year and yearned for her when I was abroad." He opened one eye a crack and peered at her in sardonic humour. "Not that it kept me breeches buttoned." He shut his eye again and stretched, his tattoos flexing striated blue over his long limbs. "I still 'ave that miniature, somewhere about, in me cabin. I expect so. I have not set eyes upon it for a long while."

She hesitated, shifting up into a fully sitting position, crossing her legs besides him, letting one hand drift the length of his torso, caressing the entwined figure of a mermaid nursing the yawning skull of an enchanted sailor that curled there. "What happened to her?" Even now, in a distant land, she could be living and rearing his children.

"Her letters found me all across the world." He replied. "Like she'd enchanted them. No matter what course I took, where me travels led me, still her letters would be delivered straight into me hand. At first I responded, not to all, but when there was a quiet eve with nothin' else to do. But there was much to be done at sea, ranks to climb, skills to acquire, treasures to be won and I stopped. The less I replied, the more letters came until finally I was trying to outrace them, changing ships as often as we made berth in a port. But still, still they chased me down, sodden and wretched stories of the town I'd left behind, the woman who bore my name but not my spawn and who sat by the window of our small cottage and looked out to sea, awaitin' each ship to bear me back to her. " He paused, eyes lifted to the canopy above, avoiding the sight of himself in the mirror. "She were beautiful, in a common way, a country girl and I had six years on her. I loved her, for thoughts of her kept me warm at night when the ship were a'rockin' and nursed me through rough times when the pickings were slim and I were still a bare-footed member of crew. But I loved her not enough to be by her side, or answer her letters. With each time that I did return to deliver riches that kept her in comfort, each time further and further apart, a web of sorrow was casting a grey pallor over her pretty features though ne'er a word of complaint did she utter and the sight of it drove me longer and further away. "

Barbossa glanced at the gnawed apple core clutched in one hand and frowned, tossing it away. "And then one day, I returned, newly a Captain of me own ship. And our cottage was empty of her."

Evie felt her stomach clench. "She'd run off."

He snorted and sat up, reaching for another apple. "No. She'd died."

"Died?" Her heart thumped hard and aching.

"Aye. Consumption. Her mother told me. She'd had it for near a year and never mentioned it, not once. " He eyed the apple critically, searching for flaws before taking a large bite and lying back down against the pillows, a small knot between his eyebrows.

"Why do you think… why did she never tell you?"

For some moments he did not reply, but chewed at his apple, calm and thoughtful. Finally, his lip curled and he seemed to snicker. "I don't think she wanted to test me loyalties."

The candles had almost completely burned down, two in fact, already had, and the other four cast only a weak and darting light about the room. In the gloam, she looked down into his face, a hundred years of adventures engraved into every crease and fold of his skin and she wanted to ask: "And what of me? Do you think kindly of the likes of Evie?"

But she did not. She knew to do so would be folly.

Instead, like the nameless and sorrowful bride of Captain Barbossa, she said nothing, but drew him into her warm and sensuous embrace and offered him the comfort of silent acceptance.


	4. Chapter 3

Evie's nineteenth birthday had passed without anything special to mark it. It was simply another day in the riotous unfolding of years on Tortuga. She was getting older, but she need not have concerns until she was at least twenty-five – and no real fears until she passed thirty. Almost a full six years she had now been plying her trade and life, though not without its roughness or worries, was altogether satisfactory. She knew nothing else except to know she could be amongst the girls who had no room to stay but only lurked beneath the docks with nought but a rock for their pillow and seaweed for their counterpane, and whose teeth had all rotted out before they were twenty and who were obliged always to ask a quarter of what Evie and her companions did. So life, by comparison, was a very sweet lot for Evie and in the year since she began to resemble a woman she had rebuilt her clientele and found them on the whole to be a reasonable lot. She still bore the occasional black eye or sore cunny, sometimes she was robbed for what was on her, but her secret stash was never disrupted.

And then there was the fine Captain, Hector Barbossa. His birth name had been imparted to her by this time and she would murmur it against his salty neck as he pounded her. His visits continued and contented her while they lasted and she tried not to think too much of him when he was gone, knowing she could hold no similar place in his thoughts. This visit he had brought to her an Oriental music box, beautifully lacquered with delicate depictions of dragons. It had a false bottom in which she could hide jewels and she coloured deeply for it was a rare thing indeed for her to receive a gift.

"'Tis nothin' but a trinket," he waved a dismissive hand to her shining eyes and dimpled smile. "I have given a dozen such things away the last few ports." She ignored this reference to the other whores and wenches who entertained him – she was not a fool nor was she sentimental, but she saw no need to discuss the matter further than that.

"It were my nineteenth birthday a month ago," she told him and he shook his head.

"I thought ye were younger, stunted as ye are. Well, many happy returns, Miss Evangeline. What did ye receive upon the blessed day?"

"A rash upon my neck and an unconscious rascal who had to be rolled down the stairs." She remarked dryly and Barbossa scoffed, putting his feet up on her dresser chair and filling his pipe.

"Celebrations all 'round. Do ye rue yer age?"

"Not yet. Do you?"

He laughed merrily and inhaled deep of tobacco. "Nay. I'm in a far better place now than I was at nineteen and no doubt. But I know well circumstances be in reverse for women."

She lay herself across his lap and plucked the pipe from his lips, took a draw for herself. "I'll not worry about that just yet. "

He grinned at her, pushing a lock of hair off her forehead. "All the time in the world, eh? It never seemed so to me. To me it t'were as if I hesitated even a moment, the world and all its riches would pass me by. Scarcely had I turned thirteen than I'd left home to try my luck at sea, and on the sea I have been ever since. "

She smiled and rested her head upon his shoulder as he took back the pipe and chewed on its end.

"When I turned thirteen," she told him, "me mum's 'ealth became real troubled. She'd been ailin' for some time, but it finally got the worst of it. We both knew she wasn't long for this world but for the time we 'ad two mouths to feed and she could barely work. Some days she couldn't even get out o' bed. So we knowed it was time for me to take up the game. "

Barbossa nodded, expression still and quiet. The tale was not an unusual one, there was nothing extraordinary about it, still there was something on his face that she could not read. His eyes sharpened as he gazed at her, a curious combination of desire and suspicion and she grew uncomfortable.

"Did you start as an honest sailor?" She queried and he laughed silently, sardony twinkling once more.

"Don't we all?" Then he became reluctant to speak further, only grunting to her questions and so she distracted him with her warm mouth and soft hands until he was smiling and running his fingers through her hair once more. She poured wine upon her breasts and he licked it from her nipples and where it spilled upon her belly, letting out a roar in ecstasy and swigging greedily from the bottle. Their sport continued to its inevitable conclusion and she remained wrapped about him.

She found him contemplating her with a sharply thoughtful look in his eye, a thumb circling the opening of the bottle, a grave set to his lips. Searched thus, she became shy and focused her attentions on plaiting a strand of hair when he, having evidently come to some decision, began to talk:

"I began as a deckhand on a merchant vessel but ye can well imagine I had grander visions. I worked hard, that first year. Worked until I wore me fingers down to the bone, 'til I'd sweated off all me baby fat and me skin was as browned as the planks the ship were made of. I worked through fever and seasickness, through any injury I suffered and I learned everythin' there were to know about a ship and more asides. The Boatswain took a shine to me and showed me how to sail durin' the cool, blue evenin's when the moon climbed the empty sky and shone upon the waters, a silvery trail I ever yearned to follow and discover what be at its end… " Barbossa's eyes were shining with the reminiscence, his gaze fixed somewhere upon the past and Evie squinted her eyes and followed it, trying to see the young Barbossa, still a beardless boy, learning the art that was to shape the rest of his life. "T'was thanks to that Bo'sun that I learned each trade upon the ship, 'prenticin' me if ye will, til no skill upon a deck was unknown to me. Coxswain I quickly became, Sailmaker then Carpenter, Gunner, Quartermaster. Eight years until I be the Navigator and then the First Mate and had all but forgotten what life upon the land even be like. Hated I were, by those who had sailed longer but not risen so high. Loved by those who had trained me, and saw in me the image of themselves. Respected and admired by the boys we took on. But feared? No. No one on board that ship feared me. There were nothin' to fear – not then. " He came out of his reverie and looked at her, a whore who sat naked upon him, sultry in her languidness, ran a hand down her body and she felt the patched roughness of his life at sea etched there. Taking up his hand she turned the palm towards her and kissed it, the calluses hard against her lips.

"I was a virgin when I started workin'," she took up the narrative, murmuring her story against his fingertips as he took another swig from the bottle. "My mum and me… we figured we ought make best of that, bein' as I could only be a virgin once. So, my mum and I decided to auction my maidenhead off, as it were, to the 'ighest bidder. She'd been workin' 'erself since fourteen or so and was known to all and begun tellin' all her customers that I 'ad a mind to join her and 'ad not yet been touched by no man. She would drop it in conversation down the taverns, real casual like until the word had got right about, going so far as to travel offshore so as those what dropped anchor 'ad 'eard from others, in other ports."

"A virgin on Tortuga, t'would be a rare thing indeed," Barbossa mused. "What were yer mother's name?"

"Meryem were 'er birth name, but she was known as Miriam – Rosy Miriam."

A grin sidled up the side of Barbossa's mouth. "I remember her." But said no more.

"Well, once enough interest was roused up, Mum began makin' sure most of 'er time was spent around them fellows what did the best business and it got so that she started whisperin' to one, and then another, that one gent had offered ten gold pieces to be me first. It weren't true, everyone just assumed I'd start workin' one night and it was first in, best dressed. "

Barbossa laughed, low and dark. "The mercenary business sense of whores will never cease to astound me."

"It fired these boys up to 'ear it. But nobody knew what I was yet, or if I were worth ten gold pieces. She couldn't take me out a-walkin' with her 'cause then it would be seen that I were workin' and that would ruin everythin'. So she started takin' me down by the docks durin' the day when the wares were all up for sale, instead, so as all these gents could get a look at me. We'd pretend not to notice their stares until one of them made so bold as to enquire and then me mum would give 'im a wink and tell 'im that we was makin' purchases for what she laughingly called my 'trousseau', as she did so 'oldin' up a set of stays or some stockin's or some other such feminine garment of a personal nature.

"Well! After that the biddin' started in earnest. One pirate captain, with a very fine red beard, told 'er he'd pay fifteen gold pieces to 'ave first go on me. A merchant sailor who only dressed in the very finest silks and satins offered twenty-five which prompted the first fellow to go up to thirty. It went on, me mum carefully keepin' each gents' name a secret but sometimes, word would sneak out – and there were a couple of bloody fights outside our doors for it. And amidst it all, me mum, calm as can be, speakin' of me unsullied skin and untouched jewel, as pink and bright as any ruby. Finally, the winnin' bid came, eighty-five gold pieces, an amount no one dared top, as much for who offered it as for the cost and that was the fearsome pirate Bartholomew. My mum gave me 'alf of the fee and warned me against a swell 'ead and 'e was 'andsome and gentle enough though 'e wore me out. 'E thought I was sweet and gave me a jewel brooch as a gift before leavin' and smiled at me kindly. "

"T'was through a whore I first knew a woman, my very first shore leave at age thirteen," Barbossa mused, urging her from his knee so that he might stand and stretch, mouth stretching in a cavernous yawn. "A bewitchin' creature all dark hair and green eyes and mountainous bosom who made as though she were flattered I chose her as my first, which I did because her eyes were kind and she were old enough to know what things were about. She were very patient with me and held me to her afterwards and kissed me when I lay a-tremblin' feelin' as though my very soul had been sucked from me. I spelled out her name for her and wrote it down so as she may see what it looked like and she got the funniest smile upon her face at that and folded up that scrap of paper and tucked it away into her bodice as though she meant to hold onto it always. 'Fraid to say, I cannot recall what name she had now. " He scratched his chest and lumbered over to the chamber pot, letting out a hissing stream as Evie retopped her glass of gin and pulled a coca leaf from her stash. "But I will never forget the exquisite feelin' of first sliding into her, or how tightly she gripped me and after I wrote her name for her she kept me a few hours longer, teachin' me the way around a woman's body and that was so delightful I tried the same trick again next port, but that whore only looked confused and asked what she could be doin' with her name scrawled out. There were no free time with her." He laughed at himself. "And I could no longer trade on me own virginity for a little extra tenderness. I had to learn to be a man and there were many after that, whore and wench, who showed me what it meant and how best to please them. "

She came to him, sliding her arms around his waist, and pushed her breasts against his stomach. "What a good study you were too" she murmured, her tongue darting against his nipple, and he swung her up and into his arms so that she shrieked with laughter.

"I always were." He said it simply, without pride. "My father made sure I learned my letters well and had the very best of schoolin', though he dared never acknowledge me to society. Bastard I was born, to a maid who he was obliged to dismiss when her condition became noticeable. But he set her up and provided for her – and me – for his own wife never did bear him a son, only a sickly little girl he had no time for. A respected and well-to-do man, he were – a surgeon, with an appreciation for the arts and he was bound and determined I would be same. He denied me longin' to learn swordplay, saying t'were books that were of the higher importance and so I had a sword on me belt from the first day I was at sea, and I scorned books for many years after, returnin' to them only when I outgrew my boyhood petulance and thirsted for knowledge, any kind that I could have, the same thirst that saw me master of every corner on a ship. "

He had taken her to the bed and laid her down upon the pillows and she pushed back his long hair and kissed the bridge of his nose. "But how did you become a pirate? How was it that Hector Barbossa went from honest sailor to scallywag and feared pirate captain?"

He chuckled and sat up, pushing her legs apart so that he might gaze at her without hindrance. "I'd become a holy terror with the sword by the time of me twentieth year, and the crew would pit me against some local fighter, betting their all on my victory and it was many a man who fell beneath my sword at the end of a duel, and many a time the crew went back to the ship, richer for my efforts while I became notorious along the ports of the Caribbean. Perhaps it was this bloodshed, the favours I received from bawdy women who watched, the sums and accolades I won, but I were growin' sore tired of being a merchant sailor, makin' a pittance and with no signs the Captain had any intention of stepping down or recommendin' me, for I was of too great a use to him. I were suffocatin', as I had been in the town of my birth, crushed under the weight of others obstructions and I wanted to know what true freedom was, to be master of me own fortune and Captain of me own ship. So, in Jamaica one sultry evenin', after I had laid waste to a braggart who could no more wield a sword than he could speak truth, when a brute of a man approached me and said his Captain had use of a fellow with my skills and would I be interested in takin' me chances under the flag of a buccaneer, I said yes. And so it came that I sailed under the colours of Morgan, that great rascal they call the King of Pirates to this day, not stoppin' even to say good bye to those who I had so long sailed with, no not even the Bo'sun who had so improved my prospects when I could've been no more than a powder monkey. Ten year I were with Morgan as Quartermaster and under him and the other fiends that made up his crew I completed my knowledge of the seas and ships and fighting upon them, and life were the sweetest I had ever known it. "

She looked up at his face, the broken capillaries across his nose and cheeks, the crows feet clustered in the corner of his eyes and the mist of grey hairs shadowing his beard and she saw each of those ten years etched there – the tilt to his chin and the set of his jaw, the hardness that made bright stones of his eyes, forever considering and assessing whatever he beheld. Was it sorrow that she felt, that she had not known him when he was a younger man, before life had hardened him so? Or would she have found that youth to lack the charm and worldliness of his grown self? She could see now he had a mind to take her and neared the end of his tale, his voice taking on a timbre of weariness.

"The first ship we took with me as part of its crew was that same merchant ship on which I had learned all I had to that point. I made no mention of this fact to Roberts, or to any man amongst me new compatriots. We sacked and looted the vessel and I impressed me new Captain with what he beheld as innovation in revealin' those secret stows where the richest of the pickin's were to be found. But I had still to prove me mettle and I was charged with dispatchin' part of the crew, for Roberts found no man amongst them of worth – and so it came that I held a pistol to the forelock of the Bo'sun, that very man who had so moulded me those past eight years, who had smiled upon me so often findin' me so quick and ready. So I found myself in a wretched predicament indeed, for were I to refuse – to show mercy – both the Bo'sun and I would be slaughtered and our bodies tossed overboard for the wretches of the sea to have as their supper. I were no coward. I met his eye and he met mine. He did not betray me to me newfound friends but deep within his eye I thought I glimpsed a flicker of sympathy – of understanding for what hunger had brought me to this very place and moment in time. Perhaps he had felt that yearnin' in his own life, perhaps it were just me own guilt shadowin' me gaze." Leaning down he kissed her softly, a hand against her cheek. She wanted to ask him, but dared not, her hands grasping his bare and browned shoulders.

"Aye," he answered her silence. "I killed him. Blasted his brains out there upon the deck. And so me fate were sealed and I were a pirate from that day onwards."

She felt a stillness within her, imagined the scene – a hot day, perhaps, with the sun burning bright from above like an eye of judgement, making the young Hector sweat as he beheld the man he had been almost a son to for so long, on his knees and waiting to die. She imagined the weight of the pistol, its engraved metal cold and unyielding in his hands, indenting the soft flesh of the Bo'sun's temple, the formidable Roberts looking on with pitiless eyes, demanding a blood sacrifice as the only true measure of loyalty. Did the trigger offer resistance as he pulled on it, did the ball kill immediately? Did Hector stand and watch the splash of blood and brains stain the deck, or did he turn his back as though he'd seen such a sight a hundred times before? And later, alone in the empty embrace of the night, did the boy still but one and twenty though a man of the sea, weep for the loss, or had he already accepted such deeds as the way of the world?

"Me mum were too sick to spend her share of those eighty-five pieces." She spoke up suddenly, rousing Barbossa from where his thoughts were marooned. "Barely a month afterwards she was bed-ridden and I were lookin' after her when I weren't workin', strainin' what cookin' skills I had to the very limit, tryin' to nourish her, make her more comfortable. But she could soon manage nought but the thinnest of stews, everything else were wretched in her belly and came up quickly but leaving 'er still in wicked pain. The day were filled with 'er moanin' and I doused 'er with gin and laudanum for 'er to get some relief but she would always awake and in worse pain than before. It came so that she had no control over what 'er body did and every day I would change the soiled sheets, sometimes more than once, and clean 'er up and pretended I didn't notice she were weepin'. Thin and wretched she grew, she who 'ad once been so buxom and proud. 'Er 'air started fallin' out and that were the worst 'umiliation of all. There were nothin' anyone could do – the doctor just said to keep the laudanum goin' and to 'ope for a quick end. But it 'ad already been on too long and one morning when I was servin' up 'er soup, she asked me to end it for 'er. Said it should be me last act of gratitude as a daughter." She had moved her gaze beyond Barbossa to the curtains that hung around them, outstretching one hand to play with a frayed edge. He said nothing to fill the silence, but let it swell. Finally, she shrugged. "I did it. With 'er pillow. The laudanum would've been easier – and quicker too, I s'pose. But I didn't think of that then." The memory of that day blurred out the red velvet of the curtain replacing it with a pale sliver of sunshine that winked through the window of her mother's room, falling across the face of the woman who had given birth to her but thirteen years before. Her cheeks were sunken and what hair that was left was plastered across her forehead, so drenched with sweat she was. Her gnarled fingers were grasping at her daughter's sleeve as she pleaded, her voice weak and hoarse. As she begged, she coughed, a racking sound that made Evie shudder, and a little bile splattered across her hollow cheek. Evie had fixed her gaze above the bed where the superstitious doctor had placed a crucifix and contemplated the Christ figure's mutilated body, as haggard and wasted as her mother's. And still her mother pleaded, entreating her only child for mercy, for release. Not until her sight was obscured by tears did Evie move, pulling the pillow from under her mother's head and pressing it down firmly upon her face. Her tears continued to fall, stinging her eyes such that she couldn't see, could only feel the struggle her mother's body put up in one final gasp for life, the muffled groans of the woman who had carried her in her belly and struggled for eleven hours to pass her into the world. Her mother's broken nails had scrabbled at her arms, her legs had kicked beneath the coverlet and she bucked up once, hard, but Evie held the pillow firm, her sobs rising to drown out the wretched woman's moans. A long time it had taken, longer than she had realised, but for a longer time still after the thrashing had stopped and her mother lay still and silent beneath her, she held the pillow there and gazed upwards until her tears ceased to fall and the little crucifix showed itself once more, the sorrowful face of the Christ figure unchanging and still upon the cracked plaster.

She had never told this tale to anyone – the doctor was informed Rosy Miriam had passed on in her sleep and accepted it without question. Her mother was buried, her effects passed on to her daughter. And so at thirteen, Evie was an orphan, having no knowledge of her father, and a whore.

Barbossa growled and tossed the empty wine bottle to the side with no further indication that he had even heard her story. "Be sure ye have more of this on hand the next time I make port. It suits me not to go wantin', as ye surely must know by now." He rolled over onto his back. "I have a mind to sleep with ye arms about me. I'll ask nothin' further of ye this eve but that ye do not leave my side. Are you agreeable, Missy?" His tone was rough, abrupt, as though he did not care what her answer would be so long as she gave it quickly. And she did – drawing his head against her breast, an arm about his shoulders and a hand stroking his cheek, she stayed there as he slept, his grip on her arm remaining as stone all night long.

At dawn he tied his scarf about his head and adjusted his waistcoat and jacket, using her small, warped mirror to check his appearance. A popinjay he was, in the brilliant colours he so loved to wear, the vanity rings on his fingers and the gold earring at his ear sparkling in the newly lit candles. She knew the stories of his brutality, had heard the tales of his remorseless and devastating battles. "It suits me not to go wantin'" he had said to her some hours earlier and she realised that he would allow nothing to come between him and his desires.

He re-slung his cutlass then took her face in both his hands and turned it upwards to his.

"Ye did the right thing by ye mother," he told her. "And it were better the Bo'sun died by my hand than by another pirate's on that ship. Regret is not a luxury the likes of we have time for. I be too enamoured of life's pleasures to dwell long upon its troubles."

He kissed her, his tongue warm and tasting of wine and she surrendered herself to what pleasure she could have of life herself.


	5. Chapter 4

It was a brilliant, clear dawn when The Scarlet Siren dropped anchor in the port of Tortuga, the air crisp and fresh and the sun not yet high enough to be harsh. Evie was bartering over a necklace of precious gems and three pairs of gloves, in red, purple and black. It was rare indeed to find gloves that fit exactly and she was keen for them, but knew she could get a better price. The Scotsman she argued with was a hard sell but so was she when she had a mind for something – and finally she got the whole lot for two silver and one gold – he'd wanted two gold for the necklace alone. Munching on crab rolled up in bread and butter sold by a vendor with a wooden leg and a harelip along with a flagon of ale, Evie picked her way through the stalls and enjoyed the flush of contentment that is brought on by good weather, good food and gaining something much desired. Her mood improved considerably when she caught sight of the Siren and its crew making a steady progression toward shore. She left the stalls and moved down to the docks, her worn heels thumping a markedly cheerful rhythm upon the wharf the Bo'sun was rowing towards.

The Bo'sun was a monster of a man, seven feet tall and heavily muscled all over, scarred in some traditional fashion that aided his fearsome appearance. He scowled at the men he instructed on behalf of his Captain, great arms folded over his chest, but Evie had seen him cow to Barbossa with merely a hard glance from his superior. As they roped up the longboats Evie swallowed the last of her roll and rocked on her heels, watching the men scarper about to their orders, hauling swag onto the docks. She grinned when the Bo'sun caught sight of her and his harsh face broke into a smile – though it looked almost an effort. He knew her now – if Barbossa gambled, dined or made merry in the taverns, it was Evie who stood at his side and amused his other interests.

"Hold a moment," he called and finished barking at the crew, who hurried up the beach with the loot, ready to sell, spend and spoil, before holding out a hand to her.

"Come, I'll row ye to de Captain," he said and, pleasantly surprised, she took his grip and was lifted into the longboat.

She was startled to feel the sway of it under her feet and sat abruptly down.

"You sure the Capt'n won't mind?" She asked as the Bo'sun took hold of the oars and began to row, his broad chest an impressive display.

"Aye. He's in a mood to celebrate." The Bo'sun, when he wasn't barking orders, was a man of few words and Evie was left to supposition their latest venture had been a grander success than most.

They rowed further and further from the shore and Evie dared a glimpse over the edge of the boat. The water was a cloudy blue, dark as a sapphire and she couldn't fathom a guess as to how deep it was – or what lurked just below the surface. She positioned herself carefully in the very middle of the boat and hoped the Bo'sun did not notice her tremble. The Siren was moored much further from shore than she had realised and she inwardly hoped they would reach their destination unscathed.

"It's a grand boat." She tried to mask her nervousness in idle conversation, with the slow and steady approach of The Siren revealing the beautiful sheen of its red and gold façade.

"Ship." The Bo'sun corrected her shortly. "And aye, it 'tis. The Captain won that when he sailed wit' Morgan and they stormed the port of Marcaibo. The Captain fought so fearless and ferocious that Morgan said he had the right to be sailin' beneath his own colours and gave him his blessin's to take this ship and answer to no other. They were allied until Morgan died, some three year ago now."

And once again she tried to envisage it, Barbossa in battle, a younger man then, fearless and merciless and she wondered how it seemed, to watch him command his crew now into ventures. This world of his she never saw – never shared. Not Barbossa, the man who yearned only for pleasurable diversions, but Barbossa the Captain who had sunk more ships than anyone cared to count and sailed twenty-seven years upon the sea without yet meeting his end.

"I were sailin' under Morgan then too," The Bo'sun continued. "But I knew the Captain were for great things on these waters and when I seen him fight, I knew it would do well for me to be before the mast on his ship. "

The Siren towered above them magnificent in the pale light of dawn – a mammoth of a vessel that stretched away into the sky. Evie craned her neck upwards to catch its uppermost points, but the ship's vast curved belly obstructed such efforts. Besides such splendour, Evie felt herself shrink, no more than flotsam that might cling to The Siren's fiery sides in hopes of travelling with glory.

"Did it?" she murmured, as they drew alongside the ship and the Bo'sun roped them in. He chuckled.

"Aye." And said no more.

The Bo'sun stood beneath her as she grasped hold of the rope ladder and made a fearful and clumsy ascent upwards. Finally, she reached the deck and hauled herself over the side, cursing under her breath – no wonder sailors had such ropey arms! - and fell into a clumsy heap on the main deck. The Bo'sun, bless him, did not laugh but merely helped her to rise. Dusting off her skirts, she was startled to feel the ship rock beneath her feet and exclaimed in some alarm:

"The ship is movin'!"

Now, the Bo'sun did laugh and joining his was another's – throaty, dark and very familiar. Turning, she saw Barbossa, tall and straight-backed in the doorway of his cabin, regarding her with shining eyes.

"We're well anchored, pet, but the sea be not made of glass."

She felt her cheeks burn as the Bo'sun continued to chuckle, looping up long coils of rope. "I knows that," she said defensive. "It's me first time on a ship!"

Barbossa feigned an expression of surprise. "Oh. Well then, we are contrite. How can it be that ye've lived by the sea all ye life and yet have never stepped upon a boat? Too ungainly a practice for yer delicate sensibilities?"

"Now what would I get on a boat for?" Evie felt herself mocked and bridled at it for it had on occasion seemed to be a sport for the Captain. But he clucked at her cross expression and held out a hand to her.

"Now, now, don't scowl so. 'Tis merely a jest, brought on by the unexpected pleasure of having so refined a lady onboard my ship."

She pouted a little still at that but went to him, because the yearning to touch him was too great. About her the great masts, like pillars, rose high above their heads, appearing almost to vanish into the clouds, and it seemed to her a thousand men could've easily fit upon the decks, with room to breathe, so wide and far it stretched. Hundreds of ships she had seen, come and go from the port, but never had she realised how immense they really were and all at once the enormity of it all - of her Captain commanding one of these very beasts, guiding it through a strange and monstrous ocean – struck her and she tripped, stumbling forward with his laughter ringing in her ears even as he caught her and pulled her against his chest.

"Oh, Missy, ye've done well for me already. Come now, let's not wear out those pretty feet on deckin' more suited to rascals." He nodded to the Bo'sun:

"Bring us whatever we may need, I trust ye to know. The lady prefers gin to rum."

"Aye, Captain," and he swung himself over the side of the ship in an action that made Evie gasp and Barbossa chuckle to hear it.

"Who would think a whore be so innocent still?" and she sulked as he ushered her into his cabin, an unexpectedly large room, grandly furnished but lit only by the soft daylight streaming in the fine panes of its glass windows. She gaped at the grandeur of what she beheld, for she'd never seen the likes of it – for all she had heard of such things to see them so before her very eyes threw into sharp relief her own abject commonness. Barbossa, however, clearly had no time to indulge her wonder, for she was quickly whirled around and her dress unfastened, his face set upon its goal and famished with lust.

The world tipped up from under her and she was on the bed, a strange and unknown bed and she barely paused to wonder if there had been many women in this bed before her before she felt his hardness pushing at her earnestly. She shifted a little and he slid easily inside her, his shoulders shuddering with relief.

"Ah, Missy," he sighed, "Ye've done well for me indeed."

Contentment rippled through Evie's breast as she wrapped her legs around his waist and pushed against him, knowing that soon, after his first need was met, the barrier of petticoats and breeches between them would be dispensed off and tipped her head back for his lips to meet her throat.

"You've a chandelier!" she couldn't help remarking in surprise, watching the fine crystal and waxen candles rock above her head, the beads tinkling delicately against each other.

"Quiet," he muttered, "Put that pretty mouth to better use now."

The Captain's quarters of the Scarlet Siren were a grand affair indeed. Well-lit by both lamp fixtures and large, sparkling windows it held all manner of luxuries, putting Evie's small dwelling and shabby, mismatched furniture to shame. The bed was oak, each poster bearing a carved maiden in little to cover her voluptuous figure and hung with finest velvet drapes. Its mattress felt as she imagined a cloud would as they rolled about on it, sinking into its downy embrace, her face pressed against Barbossa's chest, the hair there scratching her cheek and the musky scent of his sweat filling her nostrils and her head with intoxication. Afterwards she gazed at everything, trying to commit it all to memory but there was so much it dizzied her. A wardrobe from which a dozen brightly-coloured coats could be glimpsed, a glittering button or embroidered collar. The sensuous curve of an ebony figure, glistening wetly in its shadows, a large, elaborately carved Spanish chest. A grand writing desk with many locked drawers. She wandered through the bedroom to his – what could it be called? Parlour? Dining room? An immense dining table sat in the middle of it, certainly, but along the surrounding walls there rested many shelves, and on those shelves clustered books. Evie had seen books for sale or trade in Tortuga, but as she could not read she had never laid hands upon one. The books upon Barbossa's shelves were bound in red or black or brown leather, some appeared finely tooled, some were shabby and falling to pieces. As Barbossa dozed, a satiated figure, she dared to pluck one from its shelf and open the pages. Line after line of mysterious black figures, crammed closely together, pouring over the pages like a marching assembly of ants – what they revealed she could not hazard a guess and fearful, she shut the book abruptly and shoved it back onto the shelf. Had the Captain really read all of these?

The scope of his success was beginning to impress upon her more and she began to wish she had never set foot upon the ship.

Returning to the bedroom, she peered at Barbossa where he lay, a curiously rested expression upon his features, his lips parted slightly, one hand resting upon his chest and the other flung above him against the silken pillows. Tentatively, she drew the sheet up to his chin but resisted the urge to stroke his brow. Turning to the room once more, her thoughts flew suddenly to the mysterious little box he had acquired a few months ago – what of it? Where was it now? Where would he keep such a thing?

She paced, turning in circles on the plush rug. The memory of its strange chimeras floated back to her as if through a dream and she felt that she must lay eyes upon it again. Her eyes flew to the bed and the sleeping Barbossa – beneath that? Close to him – or – she whirled again and her eyes came to rest upon the huge carved chest that sat beneath a window. It had a lock, a heavy one. Advancing upon it in her stockinged feet she sunk silently to her knees, daring a glimpse back at the Captain before moving her hands to examine the lock. Where would he keep the key? Crouching still further down, she squinted shut one eye and peered into the keyhole with the other into the utter darkness beyond.

Barbossa coughed and, terrified, she leapt to her feet, spinning around with flushed cheeks and trembling shoulders. He was just beginning to awaken – it did not seem that he had noted her – and though her heart beat so heavy she felt certain he would hear it, she darted back to the bed and clambered up besides him.

"So," she begun, to mask her guilt, "t'would seem the stories of you are true – a grand man indeed."

He blinked and smiled blearily at her. "Wench, what purpose would it serve me to be spreading tall tales when none can exceed the truth?"

She dropped a kiss upon his lips and slid a hand beneath the sheet to sidle up his thigh. "No, I would – what is a word that means agree?"

He shut his eyes and grinned. "Concur."

"Well, Capt'n, I would _concur_ that when it comes to your attributes, there's no need to be twistin' the truth" and she enclosed her hand around his manhood, stroking it softly, feeling it begin to lengthen beneath her administrations and leaning in to him for another kiss.

A shout from outside interrupted them. It was the Bo'sun, who had returned – and not alone, from the sounds of things. Barbossa arrested her hand, a slight crease forming between his brows as he listened to the voices that rose and fell with the rocking of the sea – and then his face relaxed into a smile.

"Ah, he comes bearing gifts. "

Barbossa favoured fresh seafare to salted meats and it was this the Bo'sun brought back for them, great trays of lobsters and crabs, prawns and whatever fish swam native to those waters. His holds had plenty of wine and rum but gin had been fetched for her, along with fresh bread and some fine sauces. But he had also brought back with him another member of the crew – an older man with a defined limp and a gummy smile and each had a whore upon his arm – Jasmine and Giselle – who guffawed at the immensity of the ship and laughed to feel its lurch – the Bo'sun and his companion had already been making merry in the taverns on shore and the whores were more than a little tipsy.

Barbossa quickly buttoned breeches and shirt and declared Evie's shift sufficient for the weather was fine. Thusly underdressed, they met the small party upon the decking and the ladies shrieked to see their associate already aboard.

"We tawt you might be here," Jasmine said with a lazy grin and elbowed Giselle who tittered. "De Cap'un given you your sea legs yet?"

Evie pantomimed an awkward gait in response to this, as though her hips had been set at odds, and a roar went up from the little crowd as they clapped at the innuendo, Barbossa included. He sat her upon a stair and turned to survey the feast the Bo'sun had supplied with enormous satisfaction.

"As befits a King, mate, and no better."

And they all fell to with relish. Gluttony was easily accomplished in the company of the Captain, as he had no hesitance with his feast. He ate heartily, though not carelessly and Evie tried not to lick her fingers, though it was hard with such deliciously flavoured butter upon them. Her belly was not so used to the richness of the food, however and she soon felt queasy from her indulgence and the amount of good wine she'd put back. Barbossa was unflappable, if inebriated, and polished off what she couldn't while she sat back against the stairs, wincing at the sight of it.

The Bo'sun slipped a muscular arm around the bountiful waist of Jasmine and laid a hungry kiss against her plump neck to which she giggled and made as though to slap him.

"You shuld know better dan to disrupt me while I dine!" she exclaimed and when his fingertips sought out her generous breast, she did whack him and twisted away – it made Evie marvel a little to see if, for she would never dare spurn one of Barbossa's advances, not wanting to displease him – for many reasons.

Barbossa, however, seemed amused by Jasmine's impertinence and quipped:

"Ye not be payin' her enough, or payin' her too much – which is it, eh?"

The Bo'sun did not seem to mind but laughed, his mood tempered by rum, and continued to playfully grasp at Jasmine who did not hesitate to slap him away.

Giselle sat upon the lap of her fellow – a Master Weatherby – and fed him from her fingers, chewing small mouthfuls of her own and watching the proceedings with a grin. She caught Evie's eye and dropped her a wink. Evie looked to Barbossa, who had by now finished his meal, and sat back upon a barrel, contentment quieting his features. He caught her eye as she gazed at him and snapped his fingers to her, and she went, arranging herself upon his knee.

He slipped a hand down the front of her chemise and caressed one breast, his fingertips rough against the soft flesh. He rolled a nipple gently between his fingers and she felt him stiffen beneath her, right where her buttocks cleaved. His other hand slid down her thigh to grasp the cotton of her shift and he began to edge it upwards as his lips pressed softly to her ear, then her neck. Much higher and all she had would be exposed to the ship. She arrested his hand before it could reach its destination and he stopped kissing her and looked at her curiously.

She tossed hair back over her shoulder as though it were nothing and slipped her hands about his neck, pressing her lips to his and he yielded to it. Once again his hand sought to lift her shift, swifter now but once again she grasped his fingers and stopped him. Now his look was sharp, irritation creasing in the corners of his eyes.

She nipped his earlobe and whispered: "Let's go somewhere else, eh? Just the two of us."

Before he could answer, Jasmine let out a guffaw – the Bo'sun had succeeded in pulling her bodice down all the way, so that her large breasts tumbled out of them, and both the Bo'sun and Giselle laughed and begun pinching at them as Jasmine shrieked with merriment and tried to bat their hands away. Barbossa grinned as he watched, and his hand on Evie's breast tightened.

"Hey now, Cap'un Barbossa," Jasmine managed between fits of laughter, "You and yer wench goin' ta be joinin' us den?"

He glanced at Evie and she felt herself shrink inwards, suddenly full of dread, for his look was dangerously canny. She attempted a smile, she knew it came off weak, and said in a wavering voice:

"I'd need a lot more gin, first, my darlin'"

For a moment he looked as if he were about to throw her into the mix anyway. But then he rose, lifting her up into his arms and bore her upwards, towards the bow, calling back over his shoulder as he did so:

"I have a need to be limberin' this one up first" and laughter followed them into the darkness of the forecastle, lit bleakly by a sickle moon.

She was placed none too gently upon the boards again and then he drew her close against him to kiss. His tongue, rough and warm, probed her mouth and a soft moan escaped her throat and she clung to him, to his arms feeling them flex as he wrapped them around her and pulled her against his hardness. She kissed him back rapturously, feeling every bit as young as her nineteen years, and twice as giddy. The scratch of his beard, the sureness of his mouth, the masterful way he kissed her both rough and tender at once, his firm grasp on her, shifting her body to suit him – all of it had her aching for him to take his fill of her. He sensed her readiness and broke the kiss, as abruptly as he had begun it, then wrenched her shift up and over her head in one fierce movement. She did not protest now, but allowed her bare flesh to be bathed in the moonlight, gooseflesh rising almost instantly with her sudden nakedness. He threw the garment aside and then drove her up against the foremast, his hand seeking out her sex, pressing his palm against it so that the heel of his hand ground against her clitoris and she gasped at the pleasure of it, as yet unfulfilled desire, so delicious in its anticipation. His mouth closed around one breast, lips drawing together against her nipple, teeth scraping it in a manner that threatened to cease being gentle. Rapture, and she dug her fingers into his hair and then he did bite down. It was glorious.

"Hey Captain!"

The shout broke her reverie of passion and she glanced back toward the main deck, a faint laughter floating their way on the warm glow of the lanterns.

"Hey Captain! Do ye wish to make sport with us?"

She saw that her two friends were naked and danced together, Jasmine's dark supple flesh gleaming against Giselle's alabaster white. They parted, Jasmine to Weatherby and Giselle to the Bo'sun and she felt Barbossa shift against her, pushing against her bud again, sliding a finger deep inside her.

"They wonder about ye," he whispered, rough against her ear. "Wonder what lies beneath those petticoats that lures me back to ye again and again."

She did not look at him, but fixed her gaze on the scene before her, feeling his hand tease her, wishing she could simply surrender to this and finding it impossible. Her stomach tipped up and she thought of all the crab and wine she had consumed.

"Should I let them find out?" His breath was so hot, a tickle in her ear and she shivered and cast her eyes to the ground, taking hold of the arm he had about her waist.

He waited, and she could feel his gaze intent upon her face. Finally, a quick jerk of the head and she gave her answer.

"No? How did ye come by such a luxury?" His voice was venomous with sarcasm and his grip tightened on her.

"Please," she whispered. "Please understand." But she didn't quite understand herself.

"Whose gold lines your purse, wench? Do I not recompense ye fairly and more?" He shook her and she turned her face away. He always paid her well beyond her asking price – a small purse of gold. She felt he did it as much to impress his lucrative circumstances as out of some genuine regard.

"Don't play coy with me wench. I know such games not be new sport for ye."

"It's not coyness," she was wretched, the thought of being touched before his eyes made her squirm in desperation, and she could not find the words to say it. "I just don't want to." He grasped her chin and turned her to face him, pushing her head back violently when she lowered her eyes.

"Why? It be me coin that has thus far indulged ye, my generosity that has spoiled ye, why should I not be granted me request?" He had cooled the emotion in his enquiry, making it seem nothing but a reasonable question. "Or is it not enough for ye? What is your price for such a thing?"

She recoiled at that and swallowed against tears that rose suddenly. Of course she'd done such things before, and thought nothing of it – even enjoyed it on occasion, when the wine was flowing and the coca leaf crisp and fresh. But now, here, under the unblinking stars and the wide dark sky, here with Hector Barbossa, she couldn't bear the thought. Not to have him watch as another man spent himself upon her breast. Not to be urged to kiss and fondle Giselle or Jasmine. Not to have him look upon her laid bare and vulnerable beneath another… no, and she could not fathom why, but it made her stomach churn and her heart clench. And she threw herself upon him and pushed her face against his neck.

"You can have any part of me – any – any that you fancy. But please, just have me alone. Have me to yourself. "

He was silent a long while as she clung to him, not daring to raise her face from his shoulder in case he should espy the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

Grasping her hair, he wrenched her head away so that he could stare upon it and his look, though vexed still, was final.

"Ye be fortunate, and no doubt, that I have a mind to cast back amongst the many hours of pleasure ye've given me, or I'd make ye do me biddin' whether willin' or not." Abruptly he loosened his grip and instead cupped her face in both his hands, his expression suddenly gentle. "Don't weep, wench. 'Tis not worth the spendin'. I'll be lenient with ye this eve, because ye be young yet, and so lovely and yer smile cheers me."

They kissed and Evie felt the slow trickle of relief move through her, replaced with once again mounting passion. Moving her now from the foremast, all the way up to the bow stern, where the ship's mighty head pointed out of the port, out to open sea, and pushed her against the railing so that her hair dangled over the side, over into empty air.

Roughly he parted her legs and freed himself from his breeches before thrusting deep into her. She sucked in a great breath and clenched around him, now alive with desire, the sea breeze dancing along her skin and whipping her nipples into hard little nubs he pressed his lips and teeth around, grasping her buttocks.

Beneath her she could hear the slow, wet lap of the waves breaking against the bow forward and it leapt to her mind she knew not how to swim and suddenly clung to his shoulders, the smell of sea salt stifling in her nostrils. Before them, the great Siren figurehead loomed, her spear yet aloft and, below her, the now frighteningly black ocean. A long drop to a cold, dark abyss.

"I will hold onto ye," He whispered, "Have no fear, my sweet."

His eyes remained fixed hard upon her throughout his pleasure, a fierce and intent need burning there, a hunger that could only be satiated the harder he drove into her, the more relentlessly he pounded her bare buttocks into the ship. With him still fully clothed she felt vulnerable, in a way she had never known – shy of her body which had long been her fortune, helpless to all he sought to take from her – as possibly did those women he must've taken, many a time, on board ships he had fought, overcome and plundered. Did he share those women with his crew? What became of them?

His blue eyes glittered in the moonlight and one hand moved from behind her to her sex, to rub and caress her gently, maddeningly. The thrust of him inside her, filling her up, to the torturous scrape of his thumb against her greatest pleasure and his eyes ever upon her, drinking in her every twitch and shudder.

Stayed by his indulgence and earlier spending, he lasted a great while, long enough for her to climax, knowing he would feel the grip of her cunny hard on his cock as she did so, throwing back her head to the emptiness and letting out a low, long moan. And the faint ghost of a smile passed over his lips as she rolled her head back and slumped further onto him.

He pressed his mouth on hers when he climaxed, his groan swallowed into her throat, his sweat cooling her brow.

She donned her shift, feeling the wetness of him sticky between her thighs and together they went back down to the main deck, where by now the revellers were in various indelicate situations. Barbossa ignored them, grasping hard of her hand and led her into the Gallery and down, down deep into the belly of the ship, past the quarters of the crew (a humble affair compared to the Captain's, indeed, yet comfortable enough) and below, into the hold. He pushed her forward and Evie exclaimed at what she saw there, her eyes growing round as saucers.

Gold, gold everywhere. Vast piles of it, heaped high and glittering brilliantly in the glow of the lantern he lit and held aloft so that she might see better. Gold in medallions, coins, plates, rings, buttons, chains, beads, jugs, cutlery, bowls, goblets, dishes, ornaments, statues, heavily embroidered fabrics, the hilt of swords, shields, ornamental dresswear and embellishments and amongst it all winked the brilliant hue of jewels and pearls, the occasional sheen of silver. Evie staggered forward and knelt at the edge of it all, her breathing hard, and tentatively, as though it might burn, ran her fingers across an elaborately embossed plate and then, bolder now, gathered up a handful of medallions and coins and watched them slip through her fingers, tinkling prettily together as they rejoined the swell. From above her came Barbossa's voice:

"This be the stuff we don't wish to sell or spend – just yet. We gather it all together and divide it, equal, between us. Some amass all they have and retire to live the life of Kings."

She gathered together now two great handfuls and watched them spill, gasping with delight. Never before had she seen such riches amassed and it quickened something within her she had not known before… a hunger that was as keen as it was alien.

Barbossa made a noise of amusement, watching her with interest where she played. Bending over the spoils, he pulled out a beautiful strand of rubies – a necklace – and then dropped it into her lap. She looked down upon it, in silent admiration. The pirates on Tortuga only ever sold the semi-precious jewels – keeping the finest for themselves.

"We all have a hundred such pretties to not notice one missing. Ye can keep it, or sell it, as ye wish."

Speechless, she delicately traced the lovely stones in their gold settings and knew she would never sell it, not even if she were starving and too old to earn a bowl of soup. But then he grasped her hand and hauled her to her feet, his smile a study in curious satisfaction.

"Come now, Bo'sun will row ye back with Dawn but I have a mind to see ye with that trinket about ye throat." Evie followed him willingly enough, yet could not resist a glance back at the riches and wonder what it must feel like, to possess such things and looked at the man who did, his sea-weathered face regal, contemplative, and hard, and felt her heart swell. How had one so great come to favour one so humble as she – and how could she hope to ensure he still would?

Back in his quarters, she wore the necklace, and nothing else, and watched the jewels wink conspiratorially at her in the glow of candlelight and felt them quicken her pulse as much as his touch did.

As the night drew to a close and the sky began slowly to lighten its hue, she felt her heart sink where she lay, encircled in his arms. The warmth of his body, the rich scent of him, his sharply turned words and soft, hungry kisses – all this would be taken from her and she knew not when he would return – two months – six, perhaps – and each day would tick over, the same as its previous, without her Captain to brighten it. Evie did not know what it meant to be in love, all she knew was that to not see him would be agony and to tell him would be folly.

So she stroked his chest and rubbed her foot against his leg and whispered into his ear: "I were unwell last night. If you wanted again to make sport with your mates, I'd be willin'"

He threw his head back and roared with savage laughter. "The necklace were a gift," he mocked her, "ye need not pay for it."

She flushed hot and miserable and pulled away. "Not so clever then, are you?" She bit back and turned away and his next words were amused, if somewhat underscored in confusion.

"What are ye, a whore or a sweetheart? Why do ye take offence so readily?"

And she couldn't answer – after all, he was a paying customer. By rights it shouldn't distress her so to have him leave, or to have him tease her as it shouldn't thrill her to have him smile gently upon her or pleasure her body and yet –

"It's nothin'," she smoothed hands over her hair and tried to laugh. "I 'aven't slept much is all. And once you're off, I'll 'ave only louts and boys to look forward to. "

He stared searchingly at her for the briefest moment before chuckling and drew her back to him. Readily she went, delighting to be pressed against him, taking his face into her hands and looking deep and contentedly into his eyes, which had begun to show the faint tinge of jaundice and yet were no less brilliant for it. And even that gaze amused him, he smiled and kissed her. "What a pleasing little thing ye be, I've half a mind to keep ye by my side this venture – " and her heart did a mad leap " – but what quicker way to make a nuisance of somethin' otherwise enjoyed. No, this port be yer home and here is where ye must stay, so that I might continue to look forward to dropping anchor here."

And she knew she must be content with that.

The Bo'sun rowed them back, sobriety once again making him terse and reticent. Giselle looked somewhat the worse for her night of indulgence and Jasmine's mood was sour from the same. Between the three of them they were a grim lot and there was, thankfully, not much call for conversation, as Evie's thoughts were fixed firmly elsewhere. She looked back at The Siren, beautiful and silent in the early Dawn and felt her heart very heavy in her breast, right where the necklace was secreted, it's cold stones warmed by her flesh.

Wearily, the three women ambled through the soggy streets, Jasmine leaving them with a surly nod of farewell at one junction and Giselle and Evie continued on to the Maison Rouge arm in arm, huddling together against the crisp chill of the morning.

Their home was dark and silent, but the girls knew the staircase well enough not to trip on its uneven boards, and ascended as quickly as their tired bodies would allow.

As they stood, unlocking the doors of their respective rooms, Giselle sighed and surprised her friend by speaking.

"Evie, he's a pirate and a brutal one at that." Evie stopped, startled and turned to her friend. Giselle was looking at her, with a worried crease in her forehead, a tinge of exasperation in her eyes. "Don't go fallin' in love with 'im."

Without another word Giselle entered her room and clicked shut the door leaving Evie to stand in the dimness of the corridor, the necklac necklace suddenly cold and sharp against her breast.


	6. Chapter 5

"Up the bum is an extra piece in gold, my darlin'" Evie told the heavily sunburned and peeling lout who breathed foulness into her face with every exhalation. "Seein' as how it be such a delicate place and all."

The fellow had been fixing on his particular fancy for a full seven months at sea to the point it had become an obsession. A young girl's tight arse-bud, he gasped to Evie when she asked what it was he was after. He had grown red with excitement, breathing in great, wheezing gasps, his dry lips like a clam's as he then went on to describe such a thing in detail – to feel the muscles a-twitchin' round me cock while the wee little thing gasps to feel herself so wrenched apart.

Evie fought hard to keep an expression of gentle calm upon her face when what she really wanted to do was let her lip curl in disgust and tell him what a grotesque brute he was. But, for an extra piece…

Fortunately for Evie she was both the youngest and the cleanest looking on the docks at the time, and the sailor particularly yearned for someone young and so did not object to the extra coin, so urgent was his need. Fortunately for Mary-Beth, a precocious twelve year old who had started turning tricks but two months before, she was with another gentleman at the time – Evie had a strong feeling this fellow would not be much inclined to gentleness, especially with a young one – her years of catering to fellows such as he had told her an awful lot about their natures. And Mary-Beth talked a good game, but she didn't know the tricks Evie did.

Beneath the docks they went, pausing in slitted shadows for the transaction to be completed. The coins winked briefly in the light that squeezed through the planks above them, blotted out by the staggering, skipping or storming feet of those who traversed the port. Evie examined the coins up close to assure herself of their authenticity, then, with a curt nod of satisfaction, she managed a grin at her wheezing, trembling companion and led him further in, quickly and silently secreting the fee in her hidden pocket so that he did not see. Darkness was essential for what she was planning on doing.

"'Ere's a rum spot, my luv," She grinned at him suggestively, and he made to fall upon her, fingertips twitching. "Oy oy, now!" She stopped him mid-grope and pushed him back, shifting her smile to one of coy teasing. "Don't you want to look at it first?"

The fellow gulped, sweat beading his forehead. He was frantic to have his satisfaction but Evie was determined to maintain control – or otherwise he really would be fucking her arse.

Turning around she threw her skirts up above her head and positioned herself beneath a gap in the slats, so that the palest slicker of moonlight illuminated her round bottom. With her other hand she quickly withdrew a pouch of grease from amongst her skirts, and took a good handful and made a great show of rubbing it upon her rear opening.  
"Make it so it's ever so nice and slick for you, eh luv? That'll feel good around your johnson, won't it?" The fellow's breathing increased and she heard him fumble with his breeches and quickly she stepped back as though coming closer to him – but in reality she stepped out of the moonlight and into the darkness, quickly thrusting her hand up between her legs and making a fist of it. He stumbled forward, jabbing at the air with his prick and found her tightly clenched hand with it. Pushing against it with an agonised moan, the grease, the darkness and his desire conspired against him and he thought he'd found his pleasure. Evie squeezed her hand shut tighter, then, as he pushed, slowly allowed it to be opened with a loud moan as she did so and his cock slid all the way into her hand and she gripped hard upon it. "Oh, your prick feels so big inside my tiny bottom!" she cried, "Oh, oh, it 'urts it does! You be ever so big my darlin'." The fellow began to pound away at her hand in earnest, short, sharp moans of ecstasy emitting from his chapped lips. "Yes, yes!" he cried, "Tell me how it hurts you! Tell me how it feels to have me take you so!"

Evie stifled a giggle and continued her show, letting her voice rise high and pitched. "Please, please stop, won't you, luv, it's 'urtin' me so and stretchin' me out so bad!" And on she went, while the fellow continued to pant and thrust, faster and faster until finally he let out a stifled, choking groan and Evie inwardly thanked Heaven. He froze, his hands grasping her hips, and the choking sound continued, making Evie suddenly straighten. Rigid, sputtering, the fellow keeled sidewards into the sand, his limbs splaying ungainly in all directions, his face a dark and mottled hue in the dim light.

Evie let her skirts fall down about her and, in some alarm, bent over the fellow. He remained utterly still and in the striped threads of light from above she could see his eyes were wide and staring, his face locked into a grimace of the most awful sort. Tentatively, she dared extend a hand to poke at his cheek – nothing – and then, daring further, slapped him. Still nothing. Straightening again, she put hands on her hips and let out a whoosh of astonishment.

"Lord a'mighty! A noble death indeed!" For yes, the fellow was quite dead and growing stiffer by the minute. Evie could not feel much, except for being glad it did not happen closer to the crowd, and a sort of contemptuous pity for the brute, who had succumbed not upon the sea in battle but whilst playing out a repellent fixation upon the tears of young girls. Fitting, really, she supposed. He'd not even made it to climax – which gave her a curious satisfaction, and swiftly, she stripped him of what money and jewellery he had and anything else that could be of value. Once or twice she glanced above as footsteps passed over her head, but she was secure that no one could see her in the gloaming. Then, rearranging her skirts and adjusting her bodice, she turned her heel to the inert and vile figure and made her way back to the port.

Even as she vanished, a rat crept from a pile of garbage and seaweed and scurried over to the forever-silenced body, cooling with every second. Cautiously, it circled the puffed and purple head, its glittering eyes fixed on the man's dead ones. Then dared a nibble upon his ear. Thus satisfied this creature would not yell and rise furiously to its feet and stamp at the rat's sensitive tail, the rat grew bold and began its feast in earnest.

Evie was feeling smug by the time she reached The Lamb and Flag. The man's rings and earring she would sell. The coins she would trade – there were the odd lot that traded one currency for another – for what superstitious leanings she had extended just for enough not to want to spend the money of a dead man she had robbed. Whores, by nature, were a superstitious lot altogether. Tell another girl she looked pretty in that dress and she might as well go home, for sure as houses she was not going to make a single piece that night. And right as one girl met another both just starting work, heaven forbid either girl state that the evening was going to be a brisk one, because then they would have a long, slow night without doubt. The colour of a girl's dress, her lucky charm (or charms – Evie knew a girl named Martinique who had a ring on every finger, each meaning something else. She'd once taken them all through with Evie: "this one is to ward off wicked spirits, this one is to discourage bad 'uns, this one be for drawin' gold"; but she'd be blessed if she could recall any of them now), the ornament she wore in her hair, getting her cards read, saying a special prayer to a certain idol – all of it could mean the difference between bothering to get out of bed one night or not. All knew when the Moon was full, the biter's would be half-crazed, the wind all up their tails, and they could count on a difficult night. Some girls were so superstitious they wouldn't leave their rooms without checking which way the wind was blowing (against them and no biter would catch their scent for the whole of the evening). Evie was no exception, but her beliefs did not extend to passing by an extra nibble for nothing when it presented itself to her. Which is why, as she entered The Flag only to be accosted quite suddenly by Black Ruth who enquired as to her willingness to make some easy money, she asserted herself as interested.

Back into the chill night it was, and around the corner, and once again in a dank and muddy alley where the buildings on either side seemed to bend in sheer exhaustion and support each other in the centre, trapping all the foul odours of piss, vomit and blood into the very air. In this rank enclave, a skinny, indolent figure leant against the wall that appeared most reliable, his lanky shoulders slumped in lazy carelessness and his face lost to the shadows. But Evie had no need to glimpse his personage to recognise him simply by the arrogant slouch:

"Well, well, well, been wonderin' when you would be darkenin' our doorstep again, Pierre!" She tittered, hands on hips, her voice as dark as the shadows with sardony.

The Frenchman did not glance at her but chewed on a fingernail. "Mam'selle, beauty such as the likes of yours would always urge me to return, et cetera. " She caught the wink of a smile in the gloam before he spat into the filth at his feet. She did not take offence; Pierre was always spitting. He seemed to have an excess of saliva built up in his mouth that made his every word sound faintly wet and often, mid sentence, he would suck back on it for a 'thhhfft' sound that made every whore on Tortuga cringe.

"Now as you two lovebirds is reacquainted," Black Ruth interjected, "per'aps we can be getting' on wit' the business – Pierre, you do the 'onours."

His grin growing ever wider, Pierre stepped closer to Evie so that she could inhale his scent of sweat and stale spices and began to murmur the game.

In a warm and dim lit corner of the Lamb and Flag, a ragged group of sailors clustered. They had been but a few months earlier very much down on their luck, the merchant ship they sailed upon having been ruined in a hurricane and they barely escaping with their lives. But they had found another ship to sail upon; not a pirate ship but then again not exactly a ship of virtue, either, and found their luck to suddenly and dramatically improve. Now they celebrated with ale and rum, slamming tankards upon the wooden tables in short snatches of drunken song and each slipping a surreptitious hand beneath the table to finger the bursting purse at his side, still in disbelief of their improved fortunes.

It so happened Pierre had been travelling aboard that ship of dubious virtue and was quick to make friends with these gentlemen, having a very sharp eye for an opportunity and more than enough patience to wait for the right moment to seize it.

It was Pierre who had introduced them to the Lamb and Flag that evening and Pierre who had been buying the drinks with cheerful abandon – for he intended to collect the due, and with interest. It was Pierre who had vanished into the hot, pressing throng of the crowd to buy the next round as well, and who had snatched hold of Black Ruth's fat wrist and pulled her out the door with him, quick, and enquired as to what lady could best act out a bit of sport with them.

And it was Pierre who returned to them now, all raw knuckles and filthy, splintered nails clutching a half dozen brimming new tankards and they let up a roar of delight upon spying him, for very fond indeed they had grown of their new, quick-tongued friend.

"My friends, " Pierre cried, his pockmarked face gleaming boldly in the candle glow, "a toast to you all, you brave and peerless servants of the brine, _thhffft_, the ocean never saw such true salt dogs as you all be, forsooth! For though the bitter and jealous Sea sent tempest and storm to claim you to her soggy bosom, you bore up and roared down her waves as would the ferocioisist of sea lions and dissolved her fury to naught but the gentle skim of foam - to you I raise my tankard – " and he did so, sucking back in quickly, " - and say blessed am I to sail with those of such great fortune for so long as I do, I am sure to survive whatever the Sea should throw at our noble vessel. To you, my friends, may your health – and your wealth – grow ever more robust."

And with a cheer they all drank, one or two sniffling into their ale in appreciation of Pierre's generous words, so sentimental had the evenings indulgences inclined them to be.

"Aye but that were a most vengeful storm," spoke one quietly, when they had all finished and rested their tankards down upon the table. The others murmured agreement, their muddled thoughts wandering back through time to that long and awful escape in the longboat, the blistering in the sun, the hunger and the death of one who had been rolled over and into the sea. The one who spoke – Jojo, an older man – fingered the wooden cross about his grimy neck and Pierre fixed his eye upon the gesture.

"I take it you neglected to light a votive before your voyage?" he spoke gently but searchingly and Jojo glanced at his wide-eyed for the briefest moment before lowering his head.

"Aye," he mourned. "An' pay for it I did, and for all the times I didn't do 'owt as before. " Pierre nodded, his scarred face grave with understanding.

"'Tis important not to vex the Powers," he agreed, "Before setting foot upon any a ship, I will seek out the wisest woman in the vicinity and entreat her to give me a telling, so as I might know what my fortunes would be. Not one wrong foot has it steered me once, either, so long as I paid heed to her words and did as she might say."

A young fellow at their table, Jimmy, gaped at Pierre. "Says you! I never thought of doing as such, me pap always said to me as the best thing to do was throw a reef upon the tide as it was going out as a gift and all sailing would be clear for so long as the flowers bloomed."

"Aye!" Pierre said "You should do that –and you should seek advice of a seer and you should light a votive in your Church. You should do all this, and more besides, when you intend to dance upon the waves of the great Sea, for she is an unpredictable partner and will as soon as slap your face and knee your tommies as kiss you and allow your hands to wander upon her personage."

The table fell to discussing the various superstitions that saw triumph or ruin strike a voyage and then, skilfully aided by Pierre, they moved beyond that to the broader spectrum of such beliefs and fixations. He regaled them all with the story of a girl he'd come across in Scotland, blind as a bat she'd been, but with a second sight – no man could cross her path without all his sins being known to her and she would speak them out loud in a voice as clear as the bells of judgement; so that all the townspeople shunned her but for her own mother, even the town priest, for no one wanted their vices being betrayed.

"I knowed a girl like that once, " a boy named Briggs said, but he was called Braggs by all and they jeered at him. "I did!" He protested. "It was back in Cornwell, where I growed up – she couldn't walk and 'ad to be carried everywhere, but just one glance from her and sure as our ship was sunk, but if you was a woman you'd never bear child and if you was a gent your seed would dry up. " Jojo guffawed and slammed his tankard.

"Braggs you be, and braggin' is all you ever do. You never knowed such a girl so quit your lyin'. Why if Jim there said 'e'd seen a bluebird on a Caribbean Island, you'd be claimin' you'd seen a green 'un."

"But it's true," Briggs protested as the others drowned out his voice with their chortles. "She were a mite of a thing, red hair and long fingers she had, and – "

Quite at the perfect moment Black Ruth, who had been idling nearby in apparent conversation with whoever was about her set her fists upon the table and leaned over the little group, a bright look in her eye. "I knows a lass like that of which you speak, " she intoned and so impressive was her massive girth and the suddenness of her entrance, that the table fell silent and her words rolled around their ears. "She be right here, upon this very island, and 'as been – well, none can say now, as to how long exactly she been here. But she's here, all right."

Jojo, who had been stirred up by Braggs and was in a mood now to contrariness, snorted. "Where is she then, this lass? This lass who can spay and see all then?"

Black Ruth smiled, holding the little party still in the curve of her mouth, then turned and lumbered into the thick crowd. Jojo snorted again and returned to his drink in grim triumph. "What did I tell you?"

But then Ruth returned and with her was Evie now, petite and exotic with her caramel skin and red hair, conveniently backlit so that a flame was set upon her curls and her face all shadowed but for the glint of her eyes. In dark red lavishly fringed in gold and with Barbossa's ruby necklace about her throat, she cut a dramatic figure and the table – Pierre being careful to do same – let out an involuntary gasp. There is nothing like liquor and witchcraft to make a man easily impressed.

"'Ere she be," Ruth said grimly, "Evangeline, she of the cat's eyes and the serpent's tongue, there be nothin', nay I tell you, not a thing under this sun she cannot tell you."

"Ullo, gents, " Evie said cheerfully, "you 'ave a mind to share tonight, eh?"

The little crowd relaxed and Jojo turned in disgust. "She's nawt but a whore!" he exclaimed, "the only thing she knows is how to jerk a drunk. Begone with you wenches and leave us be to drink in peace!"

"Says you, Jeremy Jeffries, but for your information, I also know 'ow to tug one ball, such as you got."

Jojo's jaw dropped and the table fell silent once more. They all knew Jojo's full name but as to this last snippet of information – well, the look upon Jojo's face told them that was true, too. A dozen eyes swivelled in sweaty faces to fix themselves upon Black Ruth and Evie, the former with her arms crossed upon her massive bosom, the latter with her shoulders thrown back, the better to display her own uplifted breasts. Pierre suppressed a smile.

"Gowan on then!" Jimmy exclaimed, "What else about Jojo do you see? Can you see 'is future? Can you see mine!" and a small tumult went up from the group as the others interjected with questions of their own: "Is me wife true to me?", "Will I see me old mate from boyhood again?"; "Will I retire a rich man" and Evie made as if to answer, but Ruth stopped her with one hammy arm across her waist.

"Nay! You gents were rude enough to doubt me, an' her, so you will be gettin' no more from 'er, come on me love, let's away from these doubtin' blighters!" And now they both made as if to turn when Pierre intervened.

"Ho, now, ladies, no offence were meant, 'tis true, won't you stay a bit longer – for a silver piece per'aps?" and he proffered same from his pocket.

Ruth turned once again with hands upon her hips and Evie turned her nose in the air. "So it's like that is it? You think we could be bought so cheaply"

Pierre recoiled as though struck but recovered quickly. "A wager then. Two pieces of gold says your miss there can't tell me what 'appened in my childhood to turn me to the sea."

Black Ruth glanced at Evie who nodded and Ruth leered back at Pierre. "Done."

Evie stepped forward, eyeing Pierre narrowly before slapping a hand down sharply upon his head and grasping him there, shutting her eyes tight. The little table sat transfixed as she drew in a great breath before intoning: "When you were fourteen your pa died and left your family penniless, so your mam sold you to be a powder monkey on a merchant vessel, only the Captain took a fond eye to you – _very­ _fond – and made you his manservant." She opened her eyes and gazed at Pierre. "Would I be right, sir?"

And with a groan, Pierre threw up his hands and exclaimed: "By the Powers, you be right, young miss, and I be two pieces poorer!" and he slapped the gold upon the table where Ruth scooped it up with a triumphant chuckle.

"'Old now!" Jojo said "that could be any boys' tale, and a commoner one never 'eard. I am not convinced – I call for more proof!"

Black Ruth bent over to Jojo and leered at him with dark teeth. "All right then, Sir Lopsy, what'll you wager then my young friend 'ere can give you all of that gent's – " and here she gestured to their portliest companion, a wheezing old fellow called Robert, " – most meaningful memories with but a passing of her hands?"

And so it began. Tempered by the alcohol bought for them by Pierre, enchanted by the novelty of hearing their histories poured out the mouth of a pretty whore with ample breasts and taken by the spell of gambling, that which afflicts all men once they begin for every hand might be the one they win the pot, they all fell to wagering, against each other and Black Ruth and time and again Evie answered correctly. Pierre made sure to bet himself now and again, for it was all of no consequence – he would collect it back, with interest, afterwards. It simply was that Pierre was an expert in extracting even the most sensitive of information from his fellows under the guise of confidant, and then using that information to his advantage – without betraying himself, of course. He was boon companion to every man – the kind they trusted without question. Only women seemed to see through him in an instant and find him every bit as slimy as the patch of hair on the small of his back. But Black Ruth was not averse to doing business with him now and again and when it came to business Pierre at least was not a cheat, though he was most every other kind of scallywag.

Evie cared not; she'd had him once or twice as a customer and knew his talent for making money without doing much work and this caper at least was a diversion from the monotony the night had promised to be. And as Black Ruth's purse filled and her laughter grew ever more gloating, Evie grinned inwardly too and knew an equal third of the pot was hers.

And then, just as the little group of wayward sailors were beginning to grumble and grow discontent as their pockets continued to lighten, a shadow fell upon the table and the whole nine of them looked up to see who it was who broke their party.

Evie felt her heart lunge. It was Barbossa, splendid and glowing in green and gold, his blue eyes sharp and the smile on his mouth worryingly sinister. He did not look at Evie and she tried not to let her expression betray herself.

"Gents." He set the bottle he clutched in one hand upon the table and leaned over them much as Black Ruth first had, so that he impressed and intimidated at once. "It be a fine game ye've had on hand here and I have not been able to help myself but to overhear it. But fortune's not been smilin' upon ye and that be the truth. Ye've not tested the lady's – " and he jerked a head dismissively towards Evie " – _talents_ but well enough. A group of ye, all together since first arrivin', is it not so? Chatterin' without payin' heed to who might be listenin'. Betrayin' each other's secrets. " And Evie felt her hurt begin to sink and beside her, Black Ruth began to swear beneath her breath. Oh,what was he _doing_?

Barbossa let his words sink into drunken ears and as the party began to exchange alarmed glances, he straightened up and raised his rum bottle. "I want in." And took a swig.

Black Ruth let out a whoosh she quickly disguised as a snort. "Is that so then, my fine gen'elman? Well, I'll 'ave you know that if you be wantin' in, you better put your coin where that smart mouth of yours is – and the only coin worthy here and now is go – "

"Ten pieces." Barbossa cut her off and Ruth recoiled, the corners of her mouth now set quite certainly downwards. "What say you?"

Evie did not dare look at either of them, but shifted her foot to press down sharply on Ruth's toe. "All right," Ruth said finally, "You're on."

Now Evie did turn to Barbossa, raising her face to look into that which she had sorely missed. Oh, he was more weathered now, to be sure, looked as though, despite his grand clothes, he hadn't had a decent meal recently, or a good tumble. She gazed deep into his eyes, trying to see what his intentions were, trying to guess at what he wanted. But he kept his countenance still and calm, and betrayed nothing to her and she blanched under the coolness of his gaze. "All right then, Missy." He spoke in throaty, quiet tones, in that commanding voice that could still make her shiver. "Prove your weight. And I won't be askin' no _leadin'_ questions." And the merest dart of a smile glanced his lips.

Composing herself, she took a step back. The entire table waited, transfixed, the pause swelling in the humid air about them. She looked him up and down – not just part of her game but so that she might see more of how he was (and oh, she wished to be crushed against him right now, back in her room and quit of this silliness) and came to rest her eyes upon his face – no, not his face – his ear – from which dangled –

"That tiger's tooth you wear in your ear." She kept her voice measured, now, rather than the jovial tones she'd taken with the others, for it stood well now to deepen the tension. "You got that at the age of thirty-four in India. Your ship was hauled up for repairs, marooning you and the crew and a man-eater lurked the jungles nearby. You lost three men before you took your cutlass and pistol to the wilderness and no one other of your crew dared join you. You were gone two and a half days tracking the beast before you caught each other up. You were the victor, but only barely and you took from your prey that tooth and three deep scars, one for each man lost, on your right hip."

She finished and the others watched, turning their eyes from her to Barbossa who stood, face inscrutable but for the merest tinge of amusement about his mouth. He let the silence grow for but a moment more before throwing back his head. "She speaks true!" he exclaimed and an astounded roar went up from the table. Ten gold coins were laid down and Ruth plucked them up, chortling once more. But Barbossa was not done.

"But I know there must be some trickery at hand here!" He swigged from his bottle again and gestured to the sailors. "I determine to uncover it. Fifteen pieces, Matron, fifteen pieces, what say you?"

Ruth laughed and chugged from her own tankard. "I say we'll make it twenty, Gen'elman."

And by the time Barbossa had lost in excess of fifty gold pieces of varying sizes and denominations, Evie had identified unusual and hidden tattoos, the name of the first ship he sailed upon, the maiden name of his dead bride and Russian gold the buttons on his coat were fashioned from. This, and more, both seemingly divined from thin air and in response to questions posed to her by Barbossa and the cluster of sailors whose spirits were once again restored now that someone else was loosing money. So restored, in fact, a few of them were making noises about wagering again (though each encouraging each other to do so, rather than themselves). She knew he would be expecting an equal share in their winnings once that got back underway, but Pierre could argue that with him. Better now she turned to the rest so that they might have all the more to share.

"Do you accept defeat then, Capt'n' so that these lads might try their luck again?" And she could not help the pertness of her tone.

But still, Barbossa was not done. Smiling, still smiling all the way through, he lowered his eyes to her and she felt a lurch at what she saw there. Then he looked beyond her.

"I wager all that you have in your pockets and mine, Matron" his eyes flint-like on Black Ruth before fixing back on Evie. "And you, Missy. For the night." He took up a handful of her hair, letting it run through his fingertips and she grew warm between the legs.

Now Ruth paused and Evie could see Pierre's shoulders draw tight up to his ears, though his smile remained frozen hard on pocky face. Not for any concern for her, of course, but for the night's winnings that so began to burst the seams of Ruth's pockets. What was Barbossa's game after all? Compelled by greed, which he contained as much a surfeit of as cunning, and knowing only that this was a meddlesome stranger who seemed to be intimate with Evie and who would probably ask for a share at the game's close, Pierre played his part:

"Yes, 'Matron', what say you? Finally, a real wager, the wager of a man, the likes of which he can sink his teeth upon and feel true pride in its wining – can a mere woman rise to such a wager?"

Black Ruth broke the game long enough to fix a murderous glare upon Pierre before barking a short, sharp "Aye" at Barbossa:

"But when you loose – for loose you will – " she warned him "You're to turn yer back and be off and let us be about our business."

Barbossa's snide smile did not reach his eyes but he made a brief incline of the head – though by what he meant was anyone's guess. Once again he beheld Evie who went to "divine" something new, but before she could Barbossa spoke coolly:

"I want to know – oh a trifle really, nothing compared to the likes of which ye've divined here this eve, wench - I want to know – what were the name – " and he practically purred the last of his query " - of me father?"

Evie was struck; his father's name? Her stomach plummeted and she knew a sweat broke upon her brow and to cover this sudden squirmishness, she stepped forward and took up Barbossa's hand (and oh, she wanted to kiss it!) and stroked it, feeling the roughened palm against hers, the warmth of it and she flushed as she remembered it cupping her breast. What was his father's name, had he ever mentioned it? No, he had spoken nothing of his father except that he were a rich man and Barbossa his bastard. Well then, though she was unique amongst soothsayers that eve in that until now she had spoken nothing but the truth, she supposed it was time to follow in their footsteps and concoct a marvellous fancy.

She rubbed Barbossa's hand again, cupped in both of hers now, and breathed upon it. "William. " She kept her voice steady and sure. "His name was William Barbossa and he gave you this ring. " And she fingered the great ruby that sat on his middle finger. "Family heirloom, from his father and his grandfather and beyond besides, and he entreated you on his death bed to wear it always."

She stopped and felt the others all holding their breath, waiting for the answer, were it true or were it false? And Barbossa let them wait, while Evie remained hunched over his ring, while Pierre gripped his tankard so tight the broken skin of his knuckles split further, while Ruth's great bosom rose and fell so quickly she seemed to be palpitating and then, he slowly slid his hand from her grasp and Evie lifted her face to see his answer.

"You are – " he murmured, so quietly the whole haggle of sailors and wenches leaned forward. And then he widened his eyes and hissed: " – Incorrect."

Behind her Black Ruth let out a howl as the sailors all guffawed and raised their tankards to Barbossa and Pierre tried gamely to join in though he splintered a tooth clenching his jaw too tight in a smile. But Barbossa did nothing but smile upon Evie while she stared at him, stricken and trapped. The night was of no consequence, nor Pierre, but the money – all that gold – lost – and Black Ruth, would she think Evie had played a part in it?

Grasping hold of Evie's wrist and pulling her close to him he addressed Ruth above her head. "Come now, Matron. My winnings."

With a face as black as her name, Ruth began to empty the gold onto the table, a luscious, twinkling pile the whole table looked mournfully upon as Barbossa scooped it into his pockets, neither gloating or chuckling. He left a pile of twelve and nodded to the sailors. "For yer salve, gents." Evie wondered how long before they noticed Pierre had been omitted from Barbossa's equations. And he flicked a single coin to Ruth without bothering to look at her. "For yours, Matron. Come, Missy, I intend to make full use of my night." And Evie was hauled away, into the heat and throng of the Lamb's clientele, crushed beneath Barbossa's arm and feeling the hard press of the coins that stuffed his pockets burrow into her hips. She wanted to ask him what his game was, but he gave her no chance so quickly and intently did he move, heeding not if she were shoved or pushed at any turn. The suddenness of the night's chill was a shock to her senses, dizzied by gin and the heat of the tavern, but Barbossa pressed on, seeming not to be phased in the slightest either by the cool or by her fury, leading her around the corner.

"I suppose you think you're pretty funny!" she sneered and he merely roared in response, before grasping her around one slender wrist and tossing her up against the stucco wall of the nearest squat. Her skirts were hauled up, she was lifted to meet his hips and he plunged deep inside her, growling at her neck. And despite her vexation she could not help but be somehow suddenly glad at that familiar feeling, of the bump of his thrusts and the bitterly sweet smell of him, his breath hot on her ear. He leant back to look at her, his eyes as ravaging as his body, before tearing her bodice off one shoulder and grasping one breast to nip the exposed nipple. She felt from him some greedy triumph in having "won" her, he was positively savage about it all and she was damned uncomfortable in this position, and the hunger with which he attacked her was almost frightening and yet it was delicious as well, to be so utterly consumed, to feel the full fire of his passion lick all the way upwards from inside her. She recalled that time upon his ship when she'd resisted his urge to fuck her amongst company and now here they were, on the streets of Tortuga in full view of any who entered or exited The Lamb and Flag and sure enough she could hear a snatch of cheers from a few revellers that laughed to see them so entwined. "Give it 'er, mate!" One cried and Barbossa chuckled as Evie gripped him tight and lowered her face to his neck.

When he finished he lowered he with comparative gentleness and even shielded her while she rearranged her skirts. Curiously, she was almost embarrassed in front of him now, not so much at the public rotting but that she had enjoyed it – and possibly he knew that.

"Well, wench," Barbossa spoke to her now, finally, as he packed and lit his pipe. "Ye've certainly made this trip a bright one already. That was truly some fine sport in there."

She recalled then that she should be vexed with him and made to retort when a shout came to them from across the way.

"My friends!" It was Pierre – he had followed them out and waited until they'd finished their business before approaching. "My friends, how can ever I thank you?" On lanky legs he darted across the street to join them, where Barbossa fixed him with a disdainful face. Pierre was smiling, relaxed now, and outstretched a hand to Barbossa. "My friend, good Mon-ser, Captain Barbossa, what a marvel you were! Simply magnificent! What a show you made, they are still talking of it now, I am sure. _Tthhhft._ Though I do so wish dear little Mam'selle had mentioned another to join in our sport when we made our negotiations. " Though he smiled still, the glance he gave Evie was cold and she protested: "I knew nowt of it, yer bugger!" But Barbossa silenced her with a hand on the back of her neck.

"She speaks truth, boy, on that score at least." He confirmed to Pierre. "But it don't take a genius to spot tricks of that nature and it amused me to join in." And he smiled. "I hope ye weren't put out."

Pierre shook his hand and gesticulated enthusiastically with his hands. "Not at all, not at all, let me assure you! I found it most amusing. Most amusing indeed. You've a quick eye and a sharp tongue, Captain, and it's easy to see why you bear the reputation you do. _Tthhhft. _Why I would be honoured to work on such a caper with you again. But for now, I must retire for the evening so if we could perhaps square up before we do, I'll leave you two alone to, er, enjoy yourselves."

Barbossa raised an eyebrow and feigned a perplexed look. "Square up?"

Pierre continued to smile and spoke in his wet, charming way. "Yes. Divide the winnings. You know. "

"Oohh," Barbossa exhaled. "I see. I'm afraid ye be under some delusion there, boy, I won the wager and the winnin's – they be mine. So. " He bared his teeth in a grin. "Be off."

He spun on his heel, turning Evie with him and they made to depart but Pierre's voice, high and irritated now, followed after them.

"No, no, good Mon'ser, that's not at all the way the game was played, and I cannot let you – "

With a roll of his eyes, Barbossa pulled the pistol from his belt and levelled it between Pierre's eyes.

"I very much fear, me boy, ye not be understandin' the situation. " He spoke carefully, enunciating each word. "I won. The gold be mine. The lass be mine. Ye played over yer head and ye lost. Now, if ye want to lose yer head as well, then by all means continue to pester me."

Pierre smiled that ingratiating grimace once more and backed down. "Not at all, not at all, Mon'ser. You're right, of course." He spat and glared murderously at Evie who was glad for Barbossa's arm still about her.

Barbossa stepped forward so that the butt of the pistol pressed cold and hard into Pierre's forehead. "And boy. I better not be hearin' no tales about you botherin' the Missy here, or ye'll learn where truly I got me reputation from. "

Pierre's smile was as wan as Evie had ever seen it and he backed up slowly, not taking his eyes from Barbossa's pistol. "Of course not, of course not. Well then, good Mon-ser – by your leave." And he darted quickly off into the shadows, disappearing down an alley where a scraggy dog took chase. They watched him go for a moment and then looked at each other.

"'E always was a coward." Evie said in disgust and Barbossa chuckled, reholstering his pistol.

"Rats have mere cunning, not intelligence. " He stated, "It were his own fool fault."

And he tugged on her and lead her away from the tavern, toward the Mason Rouge.

"Well, you didn't need to interrupt, you know, " she sulked, "spoiled it for all of us – and what is Black Ruth going to think of me now? You ever think of that? I gets my coca leaf from her you know and she could cause me real bother 'ere."

Barbossa only laughed. "Black Ruth got me into it from the start, right after Pierre first suggested it. It were all set up. Fear not, she'll get her share. "

So, Ruth had tricked her and so had Barbossa. She flushed angrily and wrenched away from Barbossa, slapping him hard across the mouth. "I gave up a night's earnin's for that, you fucken' wretch, what, you two think my life is some sort of game? You think a poke in the dark s'gonna make up for loosin' that much stash?"

He stepped forward and hit her so that stars danced in her eyes and she fell backwards. But he caught he before she fell far and hauled her to him. "Don't dare lay a hand upon me, whore, nor doubt me honour. Ye'll get yer share as well and be grateful ye get anythin'!" He shook her hard and she struggled against him. "Enough!"

They stopped at once, together, and he let go the rough grip on her shoulders and let one hand slide down, down across the necklace he'd given her, over her soft breasts and she crushed herself to him. The truth of it was, she had missed him sorely and the thought he had cheated her had been unbearable. And though he still glared at her she thought there was something, a little something deep in those flinty eyes, that spoke of longing. And when he kissed her, she crumbled and threw her arms about his neck, the delirious familiarity of his tongue and mouth soothing away all remnants of annoyance. The kiss was deep and full of searching hunger and when they broke apart she could feel the blood pounding in her lips, and in her nethers and she grasped his hardness and squeezed. "Take me 'ome and make sure you take your winnin's bloody 'ard, you 'ear me?"

And he smiled at her once more.

Later they idled over gin and wine and he counted out the gold from the night onto her coverlet where it winked in the glow of the candles and filled her heart with warmth – though not quite so much as laying a soft line of kisses across the tiger scars did.

"There. " He stated, as he counted out the last piece. "An equal share, for me whore. " and he pushed her hair back off her face and chucked her under the chin. He leaned over to where his coat hung and reached inside a pocket, withdrawing a small stack of what looked like thin card with bright pictures illustrated upon it. "Now, since ye seem to have such an aptitude for gamblin', pay attention. I'm goin' to teach ye to play cards. It'll stand ye better in yer old age than hocus pocus. "


	7. Chapter 6

The cards fluttered, their bright illustrations in red, black and gold twinkling in the fading sun. Evie cut the deck, riffled them, and then strip shuffled the whole lot. They were a beautiful deck, to be sure. She'd bought them down at the docks; of course, from a pirate's plunder upon a passage ship and they were a lady's deck, with gold-embossed backs and a pretty pale-green velvet pouch to keep them in. She'd would have to pick out the embroidered initials later, but the whole deck was far flasher than the faded cards Barbossa had given her – not that she'd give those away in a hurry, no, but kept them in a drawer of her dresser.

She dealt herself two cards and then laid out the flop on the uneven, mossy surface of the rocky wall she sat on.

The Ace of Clubs, Seven of Diamonds and Three of Clubs.

In her hand she held the Two of Clubs and a Jack of spades. The makings of a straight flush, a flush, or a straight, but not much else. Worth playing on for? Other players could have an Ace, or two, a high pair or even a low pair; Three of a Kind by now, it was a possibility. All a helluva lot more than she was holding. It was also a possibility they had nothing. She laid out the turn. A Four of Hearts. All right, so a straight. Others could be playing for the same, or have two pair, a three… Evie gnawed on her lower lip and took a sip from her gin bottle. It was all so perplexing. She'd want to keep playing this hand, but then what if a Five didn't turn up on the river? She could always bet low… but then what if a Five did turn up? Then she'd be cursing not playing harder. Barbossa had warned her that she couldn't win all hands – not yet. Sometimes she were bound to lose, it was simply the way of the game. "Some say it be a game of chance, and some say a game of skill – well, it be both in equal parts. Ye need to learn how best to play the hand yer dealt – same as life, wench, exactly the same and if ye play well enough most of the time then the little falls don't matter as much. Ye need to work it so that ye bluff others out of the game or so that when ye lose, yer losin's are but dross – insignificant. "

He would not teach her to cheat until she had mastered the honest game well enough to beat him at least half the time. Evie had become bewitched by the game and played it at every opportunity – first with Barbossa when he was in port and satiated enough to stop awhile and then with Giselle on quiet mornings when neither of them could sleep. She nearly always beat Giselle, being peppered by her cocoa leaf and bullied into hard playing by Barbossa. Barbossa nearly always beat her, either with a better-played hand or betting her into folding. She was not yet bold enough to play for her bread, he would assert and make her play again and again. "Once I've taught ye the tricks, ye needn't be worryin' about loosin' money when yer older – there'll be endless ships of foolish sailors willin' to bet their earnin's in game with a woman, if not loose them in bed with her."

Soon enough a small group of whores were playing at The Goose's Breast and Evie was getting better and better. The others viewed it as a diversionary sport, a pleasure – they never bet for coin amongst each other, for that way only disaster would lie – but for a motley jumble of hair pins, sticks and scraps of fabric – but they did not see the potential in it as a retirement plan and so did not set to it with the same fervour that Evie did. Indeed, not many ever thought of what awaited them once they got too old to turn tricks (but then, what was too old? Old Mae still made a decent enough wage and she were well into her sixties) and nor had Evie until the idea had been put into her head. After all, she was barely twenty now. Like the sailors and pirates who plundered their loot almost as soon as it hit their hands with never a thought for old age, so too did the whores of Tortuga spend their hard-earned coin on life's pleasures. A few saved hard and retired in comfort, but when it was so easy to replace what was spent, it was difficult indeed to practice pragmatism. Even with Evie's hoard of coin she wanted something to fall back on.

And the playing of cards was deeply enjoyable and practiced the skills she had acquired as a whore – her keen observation of character and perceptiveness, her ability to glean ever more coin with a charming smile – and kept them well oiled.

In the beginning Barbossa had not kept what he won from her and they'd played only in brass, but now he was upping the stakes and keeping the winnings, the better to "force her play" so he claimed and Evie found herself scrambling to play a better game each time and practice, such as she were doing now, alone as much as against other players.

But the sun was surreptitiously edging down over the horizon ever steadily and behind her, the town of Tortuga was slowly beginning to awaken, the faint murmur of fiddles and fresh laid fires, sober drunks bawling for their first rum drifting on the breeze to float by her ear. It was time to turn her head to business and with that, she turned over the river. A Three of Diamonds. Nowt but a pair with an Ace High – nothing at all. With a snort of disgust she gathered the pack together and slipped it into its little purse, which was nestled straight into her hidden pocket and got to her feet, dusting off the dark green skirts that skimmed her calves. The port was awash now in the iridescent lavender of twilight, a magical gleam that never failed to make her catch her breath a little and tonight was no exception. She gazed out into the harbour, where the periwinkle blue of the sky was just beginning to twinkle with the first stars of night, where all the ships floated in grand silence, only a few of their dark eyes aglow with the warmth of a lantern within. If she stood this way, with the breeze blowing just right, all she could smell was the fresh, rich brine of the ocean beyond the curve of the bay, the enormous world that existed there, as distant and mysterious to her as her long lost virtue. And where was Hector now, upon it? Were his journeying bountiful, a brim with pleasure and adventure? And did he ever stop in the midst of it all, when the sea, perhaps, was calm and the holds were full and he'd ate and drank till washed with satiety – did he then stop, perhaps in the pause between counting his wealth and opening the crisp pages of one of his books, and spare a thought for her?

It was a bewitching path for her mind to take – she could see him, reclining in his chair, his boots upon the great table in his cabin, coring an apple, one of those green apples he was so fond of, and pausing suddenly, one those quiet, secretive smiles playing upon his lips. And to bring about such a smile – thoughts of her, of his Evie, naked and hot and writhing in his arms, or fetching him another glass or a good meal from The Duck and Swan. It was bewitching indeed and so she did not take immediate heed to the fellow who'd stopped in his way to the streets beyond her and eyed her up and down, did not take heed until he was breathing down her neck.

"You on then tonight, love?" He queried, blackened teeth arcing in an ingratiating grin.

Evie roused herself from her fantasies and forced a smile upon her face. "For you, me darlin', I'm never off!" This was a bet then she knew with certainty she'd win. And taking the fellow by the arm she turned her back on the sea and all thoughts of Barbossa.

Many hours later, Evie was bone-tired and ill tempered. The night had been a brisk one, indeed scarcely had she finished with one bugger than another sprung forward to take his place, and her cunny felt chafed inside and out. They weren't big spenders tonight and so she was ill inclined to turn a one of them down and take a breather, although truth to be told she just wanted to call it a night. She didn't bother over much with service – not a one of them wanted the luxury of her room and all elected for the docks and she was sick of shaking sand out of her skirts and bodice and sidestepping the rats and the muck so when the next gentleman – a sinewy Irishman with a pronounced limp and one eye – tried to haggle her fee she damn well near felt like screaming.

But she didn't – the fellow was dangerously drunk – and instead smiled with the very last vestiges of charm she had for that night: "Sorry ducks, but I got to earn me keep, same as you. One piece of silver it is, and you'll get its worth in the suck alone."

"It seems overmuch for a docks whore," he whined in response, clenching and unclenching his fists. She noted the gesture and moved to placate, stroking his arm soothingly.

"Aw, darlin', you just never been done properly by a docks whore before. Come on, come with me and I guarantee you'll be blowin' your top in no time."

He scowled but went along with her to the piers where they vanished, the darkness quickly enveloping them.

He scowled still when they stopped to do the exchange and Evie knew there was nothing upon this earth she could do to make him happy – and wondered why she'd pushed for the coin at all. But she'd taken it now and she'd do her job and keep a smile upon her face, even if the wretch couldn't.

"Come on, darlin'" she smiled, leaning back against a barnacle-encrusted pillar and loosening her bodice. "Come collect your prize."

But the fellow did not approach, but darted his one eye back and forth nervously.

"Not 'ere," he scowled. "I don't want nobody 'earin'"

Evie was incredulous in the face of this shyness, as she always was. "Why do you care? None of 'em will!"

But he ignored her and strode on, further under the piers and towards the water where it lapped upon the shore like the salty tongue of some great beast.

"This is far enough, for sure," She exclaimed after a few feet but he shook his head stubbornly and continued on. All of a sudden her sense of him – her sense that he couldn't be satisfied unless it were all his own way, that he was a born complainer – amplified, and she didn't want to be here, so far away from anyone, alone by the water with him. She halted in her tracks and felt the wind cool the sweat she'd worked up following him, where the velvet of her dress clung to her back.

"I'm going back." She said defiantly. "And I'm keepin' your piece for me trouble."

And before she could recall the darting of his eyes, or the way his fists had clenched before, she'd turned her back on him.

The blow came, harder than she could have anticipated and she hurtled to the sand, the wind knocked from her upon impact. Then, he was upon her and she dared not waste a breath screaming (for what, when she was so far from the town and screams rent the night all about anyway?) but instead bit out as savagely and hard as she could, kicking her legs with all her might. But he was all sinew and overcame her resistances and when her teeth found purchase in the grimy flesh of his arm he shouted in fury and backhanded her so hard her teeth rattled. "Whore, whore, whore!" he hissed through clenched teeth as he drove his angry cock into her, grasping her by the hair and slamming her head again and again into the sand. She had no breath to cry out now, but still she struggled as he assailed her, determined not to give him the satisfaction of cowering. Her cunny burned with the fury of his attack and her head swum as though she'd had a six bottles of gin and the hangover all at once and then his hand was at her throat and she knew then, as sure as her hair bloomed red, that she was about to die.

But then his grip loosened and she sucked in one deep, rancid, gloriously renewing breath, and he let go altogether. He'd spent himself, she realised through a fog, and now he was pawing at her skirts again. What now, what now – and she burst to life again as she remembered her earnings.

"No!" she screeched, a wailing sound that infuriated him once more and now his fists pummelled her without cessation – her face, her gut, her arms and legs. She lifted her arms to shield her face but he wrenched them apart and knocked her with livid deliberation. She shut her mouth tight and hoped to God he hadn't knocked any teeth from her, or loose, and that he would stop before he rendered her all but worthless, and then he landed one final, savage blow to her stomach and she could do nothing but tremble in pain as he raided her skirts and located her earnings, fumbling at the velvet pouch to pry out the card deck, letting them fall, and scatter about her inert form as he realised they were worthless. Pocketing her coin he spat once more: "Whore" before turning on his heel and darting away, back to the liveliness of Tortuga and Evie lay, doubled-up on her side and let herself pass out.

It was some time later she came to, and the tide had come in enough to soak her legs. Freezing, it was and she sat up too quickly and almost vomited from the dizzying pain that overcame her. Gingerly, she put her hands to her face and felt all about. Nothing felt set out – everything felt bloody tender though and she feared the thought of catching sight of herself. Even more reluctantly, she checked her teeth, pushing her tongue against each one and trying to wiggle. All remained fixed in place and she relaxed somewhat before recalling her losses. All that work – all those men she'd fucked – for that money, and now it was gone. The rotten bastard. She could kill him. If she could – if she could – if she could sneak upon him and stick a knife in his throat, she could kill him.

The thought of spilling that bastard's blood gave her the strength to clamber to her feet, clinging to one of the nearby pillars for support. Swaying unsteadily. She scrambled to retrieve her cards – those pretty ladies cards she'd so been admiring just a few hours before. She wouldn't even be able to tell if this were all of them until she was out in the light and how would she come back then to get the rest if they were missing – if they hadn't been carried off the ocean? Oh, fuck it all. Fuck it all.

She'd been raped before, and beaten and even robbed, but a long stretch of time had passed between the last and this and it was no less an insult for it. She should've known when he'd started clenching like that, that he was itching for some violence and some stupid bitch to act it out upon. And she was that stupid bitch, wasn't she?

She couldn't kill the bastard. As she limped toward where the dim glow of Tortuga burnt beyond the dock, sidestepping the flotsam that littered the sand as well as she could in her sodden boots, she knew this for a fact. If she could even find the bastard before he was off again, he was far stronger than her and she feared him now. Yes, and she cursed it, cursed herself, but she feared him. She reached the end of the docks and began a weary ascent back up the broken path and into the town, by now vibrant with noise and activity. No one paid her any mind. A bruised whore was not so uncommon a sight, after all, and she sighed and stretched her aching limbs and picked her tender way through the streets, flinching now and again at any sudden roar from a drunken sailor – who might be her assailant, returned to finish the deed – and knew it was ridiculous. He was off, spending her money.

She reached the Mason Rouge and hobbled up the stairs, sucking back a gasp of pain at every breath until finally, finally she came to her floor and fell upon her door with a mere groan of relief, unlocking it as quick as her trembling fingers could manage, for all at once it seemed the shadows of the stairwell were rearing to pounce and then she was on the other side and the door was shut and fastened quickly and she stood, panting, in her own room, secured once more.

The candles were lit and the fire set ablaze and the pot quickly turned on while she stripped, gulping from a bottle of gin as she did so. The dress, the green velvet concoction that so flounced nicely upon her hips and lifted her breasts just right, was discarded into a corner –she no longer cared for it but could ill afford to burn it. And her boots – they were laid by the fire to dry, but her stockings were ruined.

The pot hissed and spat and she snatched it from the blaze and prepared her tub quickly, mixing the water so that it was scalding and promptly steamed her blue-black skin lobster red as she sank down into it, feeling the burn wash over her sore genitals, assail her wounds.

Evie stared ahead, to her dresser, where her combs and unguents, hairpins and trinkets piled one over the other, a bright and twinkling jumble of colour that seemed to belong to another. She took another swing of the gin and felt a dull buzz slowly over wash the throbbing. Her eyes glazed over and she let her head slump forward onto her arms, and slept.

Two full days and nights she spent locked away in her room, feasting on nothing but gin, shunning even her beloved coca leaf for she didn't want her spirits to be further agitated. The gin soothed and dulled and she laid out her cards and counted them. Five missing. Useless then, the whole fucking pack, and dug out the ones Barbossa had given her, and practiced. Once or twice Giselle dropped by with a hot pie and some mash and bread with butter but the delicacies that Evie would usually devour with gusto grew cold on her sideboard. She just wasn't in the mood and wouldn't be until her face healed up and she felt pride enough to show it. She wouldn't make a brass button out there like she was at the moment – one eye was swollen nearly shut and her mouth was bloomed up like a grotesque purple flower. She fiddled with her cards, drank her gin, and bathed her face in hot water and herbs Giselle brought her with her meals and cursed the bastard who'd brought this ill fortune upon her and every night she didn't make another penny. She looked amongst her dresses, mended a few rips, polished some jewels and heaped damnation upon herself for being too tired, too ill tempered, too greedy to note the usual signs. She barely slept and when she did, it was in short and unfulfilling snatches. She didn't cry, oh no what was the point? Life went on. She wasn't the first whore to be so brutalised and she wouldn't be the last. If she weren't stuck to this bloody room she wouldn't even waste time sulking so. What's done was done.

She'd still kill the bastard, if she could.

She was waking from a gin-fogged daze the evening of the third day when there was a rap on her door. Thinking it was Giselle, come by with more sustenance for her, she flopped back down upon the pillows and called: "Come in, love."

The door creaked upon its hinges and fell backwards to reveal not Giselle at all – but Barbossa. Startled, she sat up, forgetting all about her face and bruised collarbone, clutching the coverlet to her naked breast – of all things she might expect to come upon her doorstep, he was not one of them. He stood in her doorway and gazed upon her, a dandy in green pants and waistcoat, lavishly embroidered jacket of purple and the tuft of yellow feathers in his hat scraping the low ceiling. He was grand and she was naked and broken, and wished he had not come.

"Three days I been in port and not seen hide nor hair of ye," He spoke softly. "Thought it best I came to see if ye'd taken ill or taken up with someone." His eyes flickered and darted upon her face and she remembered her condition and was shamed, turning her face quickly out of the candlelight's glow.

"'Ad a spot of bother," she muttered. "Haven't felt much up to walkin' about."

She heard his tread as he walked into the room, swinging the door shut behind him. "Nice to 'ave you about though." She managed gamely and then fell silent again, gazing numbly into the coverlet. The bed creaked beneath his weight as he sat down beside her and then his rough hands were cupping her face and he was turning her head towards him. "Come, wench, let me see." He said gruffly and she thought it was possibly the gentlest he'd ever touched her.

She burned as he gazed about her swollen countenance, feeling the weight of her unhealed ugliness heavy as lead around her neck. But he remarked upon nothing, nor showed a glimmer of revulsion; indeed the tenderness of his fingertips and the gentle thoughtfulness upon his brow filled her with a sudden rush of emotion and she swallowed hard against its tide.

"Ye should mind to keep that smart mouth shut with some fellows, or filled at least" he murmured, "Not all find pertness so endearing, unless it be there own."

He didn't laugh but looked at her gravely and she felt the dam crumble. She flung herself upon him and, for the first time, she wept, openly against his vest and poured out the whole sorry tale.

It wasn't until she fell silent that she felt his hands moving in her hair, gently, softly, brushing a soothing path down to their ends and she felt shame again. Now she was weak, now she asked him for tenderness and what better reason could she give him to turn on her? Drawing in a calming breath she took deeply in of his scent and buried herself still deeper, the linen and silk of his clothing soothing her bruised cheek, the scratch of his chest hair luring her further. She heard the hollow pop of a cork and felt the hard weight of a bottle nudged against her. Rousing herself she took it from him and sculled back the bitter liquor and it burned its way to her gut and there took flame. "Calm yeself," he said, though not unkindly, "Tis no use now, to be spillin' tears." And she gulped back more, for tears threatened to rise.

"I knows that." She protested, her voice raw from the alcohol. "I 'ad a lot to drink and it's made me maudlin-like." And she straightened herself up, pushing back the tendrils of hair which had clung to her soaked cheeks. "And all that bloody money I lost and more asides, thanks to that bastard."

He stood, back to her and walked across the room, boots clomping a slow, heavy tune. "We must all take our losses with our winnin's, missy. Or none of us might ever see sunup again."

She felt wretched, and drank more, slipping her aching body still further under the covers, tugging at the velvet curtains of the posters to blot out the glow of the room, and he, tall and implacable – well what did a man know of such things? She had not expected much more from him – but still, she'd rather hoped – what?

Barbossa's eyes wandering her dresser, the tumult of frippery there, and passed over her washstand and the mantel of her fireplace where next to clustered candlestick the crucifix from her mother's death bed stood and a much-aged and small portrait, in sharp contrast to the exotic nudes of her walls, rested against the wall. His face was quite inscrutable, he could as much have been contemplating the weather as considering what she had told him, and there was no surprise in that. Well, how many girls had he ruined himself? And he turned, towards the bed, and she thought then she caught something in his eye that spoke of weariness, the corners of his mouth pressed every slightly down and he looked upon the empty bottles that lay next to the bed on the worn oriental rug and clustered in amongst them, his old deck of cards.

"Have ye been practisin'?" He broke the silence and strode over to the bedside, stooping to retrieve the deck and began lazily to shuffle, long fingers expertly flicking the cards so that she could not follow their progress.

"Aye," she said. "What else am I to do, confined in 'ere?"

He said nothing, and sat back down besides her, tossing his hat to the chair, where the yellow feather bobbed and trembled, and dealt out a hand.

They played for a while and he corrected her foolish errors harshly and with little patience so that all of her concentration was fixed upon the game. But now and then her eyes darted to his face, ran themselves over the lines that marked a hundred journeys there, traced an outline around his lips – those sensual, full lips that could so quickly curl into cruelty as curve into merriment – and longed for those lips upon her.

She reached over and pressed her hand upon his arm. "Fuck me, won't you? Get the stench of him off me good and proper like."

He paused only long enough to dash the cards aside and then grasped hold of her. He was not gentle, or tender but fierce and all consuming in the way that he took her and opened her wide to him and she found that she preferred it. There was an exhilarating cleansing to the surety of his hand and the force of his body and feeling his weight upon her made her gasp in relief and he kissed her all the way through it, his lips growing more bruising as he reached his climax then softening into a gentleness so sweet she thought she could weep. This, and the heat of his seed and the sense of him growing slack within her were her comfort as she slipped into a restful sleep.

When she awoke, Barbossa was gone, and a place within her breast ached. But, so it was. She got out of bed to use her pot with considerably less stiffness than before and thought wryly of the wonders a good fucking could bring.

A glance at her face in her mirror confirmed the swelling had gone down and though she still had a black eye, some powder and judiciously applied kohl should disguise it well enough for her to go out tonight and recuperate some of her losses.

She was fastening her stays when the door flew open and Barbossa strode in, tossing a couple of crab rolls onto the sideboard. "Eat and dress and make haste about it," he directed her even while she gaped at him in shock; half delight, half bewilderment. "Get to it, wench!" he barked at her puzzled face and she hastened to obey. He was dressed still as he had been when he first came to her door, so he had not been back to his ship. Where then, had he been, and what had he done that now he required her?

After a few swigs of gin she was sharpened enough to move at a pace that pleased him and it was but a few moments later they were hurtling down the dubious staircase of the Mason Rouge and out into the streets of a dim afternoon that Evie nonetheless had to blink at. She licked the butter off her fingers, the paltry remnants of the first food she'd had in days, and it was a bliss she wanted more of. "Can't we stop at that vendor there for more grub?" she entreated Barbossa and he responded by producing another roll from his pocket and handing it to her before taking hold of her arm and hurrying her through the streets. Never had she seen them so quiet, but then, never was she usually awake at this hour.

They wound their way through the streets of Tortuga –a wretched sight indeed, by the light of day and it was no wonder few braved it, for it the buildings seemed to sag by night then by day they crumbled and if the streets were littered with waste under a dark sky then by a light one they were choking with it – and came to a lonely spot mashed tight into a dark corner of the town, between a tunnel such as the sort that suited cutthroats and thieves and a disintegrating tavern such as the sort that tipped out the most malleable victims. In that spot was a well, long since abandoned for all but dunking the heads of drunks in, for the water in it now more resembled a putrid grease, and against that well of grey and suspiciously stained slabs, stood a ropy figure clenching and unclenching his fists and Evie stopped sudden in her tracks and her heart stopped with her. What was this?

The fellow had started as well, upon catching sight of her, that grimy fellow with the one eye and bum leg, and echoed her thoughts in savage demand to Barbossa: "What is this?" and glared savagely at Evie who darted behind Barbossa and clung to his coattails, trembling at the voice of her assailant.

The crisp, sharp zing of a sword being unsheathed rent the air and Barbossa snarled: "Are ye prepared to make good on our wager, ye bitch's spawn, and test ye skills against mine, or do you acquiesce, ye miserable cur?"

"What's she doin' 'ere'?" The fellow retorted, darting forward in nervous, angry steps. Barbossa grasped Evie and flung her to one side so that she stumbled against the well and cowered back as the fellow's agitated eyes fell upon her. But Barbossa drove him back, the sharp point of his cutlass waving but a few inches from the fellow's throat.

"Fight me or be run through where ye stand, ye lily-livered dog." And she had never seen him in quite this way, poised to battle with a fearsome countenance as dark as a stormy sea and the fellow had no choice but to draw his own sword and block.

And the duel began. Evie had seen sword fights before; Tortuga was flush with them, but none such as this. Brawls in Tortuga took place in taverns by sailors and pirates so inebriated they could barely see where to strike their cutlass and often ended up doing more damage to their surroundings than to each other. Watching such battles was a merry sport for the whores who would titter and drink and lay bets amongst each other who would loose his trousers first.

But what unfolded before her now was spellbinding, but not in the least bit amusing. Barbossa's every move was liquid flame as though it had been calculated several steps in advance and the grace of his sweeps was belied only by the savagery of his strikes, which the other fellow scrambled to defend, each blow that clanged against his sword forcing a grunt of exertion from his lips. Barbossa, on the other hand, made barely a murmur but moved like lightning, with a snarl twisting his mouth and his eyes never moving from his prey. Evie sat upon the well and watched, transfixed, at the blaze of darting colour that was her Captain and the strength with which he riposted and thrust and drove the fellow to parry frantically against every onslaught. It quickly became clear to Evie that this was no match at all – the other fellow bore none of Barbossa's quickness, nor his grace, nor his strength and not a jot of his skill. Barbossa was toying with the fellow, and Evie's mind fell to a similar fight she had observed once, a few years ago, of a cat who scrambled with a mouse only to lift its paw. The wretched little thing had sat there for a few moments, in utter stillness, before daring to believe its escape and darting across the cobbles only for the cat to pounce and in swift bite, sever its spinal cord with a sickening crunch. Now Barbossa engaged, permitted disengagement, feinted, the fellow parried and Barbossa knocked the sword from his hand then landed a boot in his chest and the fellow sprawled in the dust, spluttering. Barely could he gasp for mercy when the hilt of Barbossa's cutlass met his chin and Evie heard, quite distinctly over the grunt and the scattering of dust, the jaw dislocate. But Barbossa was scarcely done. He sheathed his cutlass and took to the wretch with fisticuffs, holding him up by the scrag of his throat and landing blow after blow about his face and head. The fellow lolled and his head sagged drunkenly and Barbossa paused to catch his breath and roared at Evie, his eyes fixed upon his prey in curious detachment. "Come, wench, come and balance the scales, I have delivered the bastard to ye!"

As though in a trance, Evie slipped down from the well and stepped delicately around the blood that smattered the dirt until she came to face to face with her assailant, gazing down into his bloodied and broken face as it rolled back, his whole self held up only by Barbossa's hand firmly knotted in his lapel. She looked into the face of the man who had raped and robbed her and his fast-swelling eyes swam to her and blood and spit burbled at the corner of his lip.

In a sudden fury she fell upon him, striking at his face and shrieking "miserable cur, miserable cur!", but the bones of his face hurt her wrists and she grasped him by the shoulders and kicked instead, kicked at his gut and balls with all the strength the could muster, again and again as he grunted and coughed and mewled. She heard nothing but the thick, muffled sound of her foot finding its purchase in the softness between his legs and the raggedness of her own breath in her ears. She kicked until her leg began to tremble and Barbossa pushed her back, his arm insistent, and gentle. Withdrawing his weapon once more he pressed the blade against the fellow's throat. "Hold yeself up, and die like a man." He commanded and let go the fellow's collar. He lurched and threatened to tumble sidewards but Barbossa snatched him again and with a sneer of disgust plunged the blade deep into the man's throat. The fellow's eyes rolled right back into his head and a slow, wet wheeze rose from him – though whether from his mouth or the wound that rent him open, Evie could not say, and she watched, eyes wide as Barbossa pulled back his sword and the man's severed jugular gave up a hot spray of red and the fellow fell backwards, dead in the dirt, his blood pooling about his head and his eyes white and filming even as they watched.

Barbossa bent and wiped his sword clean on the fellow's jacket and resheathed it. Evie looked at the dead man and felt nothing – not for him. She was vindicated.

"Come, Missy," Barbossa rasped, mopping the sweat from his brow, "I've a mind for a meal and yer company to temper it."

She turned to look at Barbossa as they walked away from the sallow corpse, passed under a bridge and headed towards the heart of the town, but his eyes were fixed at the road ahead, his mouth straight, as though this event were but another drop in the ocean. To him – perhaps, perhaps it was. But she grasped him and pulled his head down to meet hers, kissing him as fervent and frantic as her heartbeat rose to match it, the tang of blood was in the air between them and the salt of his sweat wet her lips and drove her ever hungrily upon him. He responded with a like passion and let himself be pushed against the stone wall that hid them in the shadows of a fast-dying day and she dropped to her knees at his feat and tore at his pants and took him in her mouth.

When she finished, she blushed at her lack of restraint, lowering her eyes as she wiped her lips, but he leant to grasp her by the elbow and lift her to her feet. "That's a favour better than a kerchief for showing yer gratitude." He chuckled and she smiled and took his arm, leaning her head upon it and feeling for the first time, as they wandered the streets of a slowly wakening twilight, so joined together, some semblance of normalcy that softened her soul. In another country, in another town, in a lavender dress whose collar went up to her throat and her hair piled atop her head, and he in a respectable suit of deep blue and a trimmed beard, why they might even have passed as wed – but this was Tortuga and they looked nothing more than they were – a notorious pirate and a known whore who enjoyed each other's company, perhaps overmuch.

At the Duck and Swan she spooned tender morsels of pork into his mouth and raised his flagon to his mouth and lay kisses upon his ear as he chewed and drank and revelled in her attentions.

"You know – " she began, and hesitated but Barbossa grunted she should continue, devouring a victorious mouthful of meat and sauce. "I knows your reputation. I knows what you done to lots of young girls at sea. So why you done that for me then – what you did back there."

Barbossa finished his chewing and turned to look at her with his blue eyes unfathomable and his mouth utterly still. He looked upon her for a moment with an expression she could not decipher as she waited, growing fearful, then knotting the fingers of one hand in her hair and lifting his flagon to his lips for a deep draught before he spoke:

"I don't take kindly to me treasures being mishandled."

And that is all he would say on it.


	8. Chapter 7

It was an unrelenting night and Evie was taking refuge in the Goose's Breast. Outside the rain plummeted down, stripping the streets to sludge and the taverns were crammed full to their very extremities, their patchy walls groaning against the weight of the jumbled lot of sailors, pirates and whores that filled them. A few other girls who'd grown weary of the hustle were there as well, warming themselves over mugs of rum and hot pies. Evie was not much concerned about missing a couple of hours. The demand far exceeded supply and she'd no sooner walk back into a tavern then she'd be back at work. In weather like this there was no going under the docks or even bothering with the trek back to her room – it was all done around the corner and up against a wall, meaning no sooner would she wipe one fellow off then she'd snap up another.

She was ravenous from the evening's exertions to date and tucked into her fish supper with a gluttony lately acquired through Barbossa's influence and her head was pleasantly abuzz from hot rum, feeling the soaked edges of her skirts beginning to steam dry in the wonderful heat of the cosy little tavern. Jasmine lowered herself into the chair opposite Evie and grunted a greeting as she took an enormous mouthful of eel pie, licking the gravy off her lips.

"More worms dan holes to hide dem dis night" she muttered to Evie and Evie murmured in agreement. "Who's dat young filly over dere, you seen her afore, Evie?"

Evie looked to where Jasmine inclined her head, to a dim-lit corner of the small tavern where a figure hunched over a tankard, an ill-fitting yellow dress and heavy cloak obscuring any easy look at her. "Can't say as I 'as, Jas," she replied with a small frown furrowing her brows. "What's she doin' 'idin' like that anyhow?" They watched the mysterious whore for a moment or more but she did nothing more interesting than take a furtive gulp or two from her drink and rap grimy ringed fingers against the table and so the two companions lost interest and turned back to their suppers.

Black Ruth delivered them another round of drinks and to Evie's elbow a tight-wrapped packet Evie knew contained coca leaf. "To keep yer spirits up, lass." Ruth nodded to her, heavy chins doubling against her collarbone.

"Who's that doxie over there, Ruthie?" Evie enquired with a jerk towards the cloaked figure and Ruth gestured to the remaining tankard in her hand. "That's what I'm about to find about, m'love. Skulked in short before you did, got a drink and fled to the corner. Would like to know what she's about, I would."

And with that she strode towards the corner, hips swaying in pronounced motions that spoke of her resolve. Evie reached over the table and spooned up a mouthful of Jasmine's pie, washing it down with rum. "Seen 'owt of your sweetheart lately eh?"

Jasmine had become entwined with a dishonest sailor who was fond of gifting her many beautiful things that were fast becoming the envy of most of the women of Tortuga being as how they were new and not second-hand. Jasmine flushed at mention of him and grinned.

"He write me a letter de other day dat I got. I couldn't read it, but ol' Bessie say it says to expect him in at de end of de month. And he enclose some coin."

"Got it all worked out, then eh." Evie wiped at her mouth and grinned. "Think e'll marry you?"

Jasmine's smile grew wider and her eyes gleamed. "I workin' on dat. Don't you worry." And the two whores chuckled. "An' you got it worked out not so bad yourself, what with your fine Cap'n and all. A Cap'n, even a Pirate, is a damn sight better than a sailor."

Evie pushed her plate away and her smile grew a little smaller. It had been a good six months since last she had seen Barbossa and though such long disappearances were to be expected from those who sailed the sea, still she wondered about him. When he had avenged her at his last visit and spent several days ensconced with her in her room her every step had been upon a cloud and her head swollen with delighted giddiness. The gold he'd left her was too much for her hiding places and so a new one had to be discovered and into it she'd slipped the ruby necklace and the music box he'd given her also. And though he'd told her the voyage he was taking now was expected to be a long one, still she had rather much hoped he'd have stopped in by now. "E' ain't the marryin' sort," she muttered, but then, did it matter so long as he would continue to visit her? Before Jasmine could reply a shriek threw up from the corner where Black Ruth and the mysterious cloaked figure were:  
"JACK SPARROW!" Ruth's voice was rageful as she revealed the "whore" to be the dreadlocked rascal who ducked and threw his skinny hands up as though shielding himself from the blast of Ruth's cry.

"Jack Sparrow?" Evie exclaimed and Jasmine echoed her and the two of them leapt up, as did every other whore in the tavern.

Sparrow had recently sprung up on the Spanish Main and though he was but a boy still in his twenties, identified himself to anyone who asked as "Captain", though his crew was meagre and his reputation unknown. Unknown, that is, to any but the whores of Tortuga who all knew him very well indeed – Sparrow was a charmer with a silver tongue and a boyishly pretty face but he was also a determined rascal and most of the whores there had one reason or another to be vexed with him. Evie, as it so happened, had a very pressing one indeed and she pushed her way through the small circle of indignant ladies to where Sparrow stood, Black Ruth grasping him firmly by the scruff, trying to placate the angry crowd of motley whores. "What you doin' 'ere you rum blighter, this is OUR tavern!"; "Sparrow, I still owes yer for that biter you made me loose last time you was 'ere!"; "What right do you think you have to be gussyin' up and listenin' in on our private affairs,eh?" whilst amidst it all Sparrow, ridiculous in the dress he'd evidently stolen, a smudge of colour on his lips, waved his fingers and entreated "Ladies, ladies, please! This shoutin' does not become you!"

And Evie who stepped forward and shouted. "Sparrow, you dirty bastard, you owe me two gold pieces and you ain't gettin' out here tonight without me gettin' 'em!"

"Evangeline!" Sparrow flustered, the rings on his fingers winking in the dim light. "But I was sure we was all squared up!"

Evie came to a halt under Sparrow's nose, narrowing her eyes in a fearsome glare. "We was. But you fingered another two from me shoe, and don't try denyin' it, cos I keeps a careful count!"

The wretch grinned, ingratiating, as the whores muttered and shook their heads, swearing to each other, their rouged cheeks flushing brighter with fury. "Ah! Now, y'see, that's exactly what I have always liked about you, Evie, your sharps. "

Evie jabbed the scoundrel in the chest. "Me gold!"

"Now, you see, here's the thing – I've not a brass piece on me. I have to go to the bank – "

"Then I'll 'ave these!" and with that exclamation Evie grasped at Sparrow's hands and swiftly de-ringed them. The women all about her gave up a cheer as Sparrow attempted a feeble protest only for Ruth to shake him vigorously.

"You know what I 'eard about our mate 'ere, girls?" Ruth cried, "I 'eard he been seen about with young Millie and now her sailor's back in town and put the call out for young Jack's jewels!"

"Oooh, you'll be singin' 'igh when 'e's done with you, Jack!"

"Hope I'm there to catch the show!"

"What should we do with the blighter, ladies," Ruth roared and the cry went up "To the pigs, to the pigs, yes throw 'im in the swine'ouse!"

And a group of them grasped Sparrow wherever they could, the edges of his dress, his arms, the locks of his hair and hustled him out of the tavern at once. Evie did not bother; she was not getting soaked to the bone for that, no not when she had a couple of fine-looking rings to examine. Moving closer to a candelabra, she held one of them aloft and squinted at it in puzzlement. Chased gold with a filigree setting into which was embedded a ruby… now this was very much… no, _exactly_ like one of the rings Barbossa wore. Evie raised the ring to her nose and sniffed at it, as though she might catch the scent of him upon it, but it smelt only of brine and metal. But she was sure of it… sure as could be. Had Sparrow then seen Barbossa of late? Where? And what had happened, that he might have Hector's ring? Evie cupped the ring in both hands and pondered the mystery before an angry grimace contorted her little face. Well, he had thieved it of course – as Sparrow was wont to do – and an insurmountable indignancy consumed Evie's breast – thieving from _her_ Captain, the bleeding scallywag! Well – she had a mind to – she would go to Sparrow this instant and find what he was about – and when exactly he had crossed paths with Barbossa. Slipping the ring upon her thumb and gathering up her skirts, Evie hastened out the doorway and into the pelting rain beyond.

But by the time she reached the swine house, Sparrow had vanished.

The rain was as heavy the next evening, with wondrous bolts of lightning striking the sky and illuminating it all a silver-grey. Evie stood upon the porch of the Mason Rouge and watched the deserted streets run black and contemplated the evening ahead of her. She circled the ring around her thumb, spinning it over and over again. She knew it's every angle by now, every bump and point. But she did not know where its owner was or what state he might be in and that tormented her. Never taking her eyes from the flashing black and silver landscape she brought her hand to her mouth and kissed the ring. Something glittered in the night – there – deep down the pitch of the street directly ahead and she straightened. Someone was approaching. Some brave soul dared the elements and made his way steadily towards her. The thought caused her pulse to rise but she felt compelled to stand in her place instead of retreating within and then, lightning struck again and the figure was, for a brief moment, entirely illuminated in shades of charcoal and slate and she let out an involuntary cry and heedless of her boots or gown or kohl-lined eyes ran out into the storm to meet him.

It was Barbossa.

She could not help but notice the limp he now walked with as they moved up the stairs and into her room; but he would not speak to her despite her entreaties, moving swift ahead of her despite the wound and she hurried to keep up.

Once in her room he went straight for the sideboard where her liquor stood and she shut the door fast behind them and hesitated but a moment before moving to light the fire. He was hatless and coatless and the fine linen of his shirt was stained and ragged. His cutlass still hung by his side, however and his back were as straight. He drank straight from the bottle of rum, gulping it back thirstily as amber rivulets rolled down the corners of his mouth and into his beard, and she moved, perturbed, to stand by one poster of the bed, partially shielding herself in the curtains that hung there.

When he had sated his thirst, he slammed the bottle back down upon the sideboard and turned to her, his vivid eyes gleaming dully. They darted upon her as though he were uncertain what to say, then he barked:

"Make me up a bath."

But the sound of his voice broke her reserve and she rushed over to him, grasping him by the arms and entreating: "Oh, but what happened to you? Are you all right? 'Ow did you 'urt yourself?"

He tolerated her shaking with a grimace for a moment before grabbing hold of her and roughly pushing her away. "Did ye not hear me, wench? Hot water, now!"

Stung, she turned to comply, moving her pot onto the fire and stoking the blaze a little higher. He watched her with a steely gaze for a moment before sinking down upon the bed and pulling the scarf from about his head, one tired hand pushing the hair that fell into his face back around his ear.

"It's all gone." His voice was hoarse. "Everything. Lost."

She straightened from the fire and stared at him. "What do you mean, everythin's gone?"

His face grew suddenly, awfully thunderous. "Ye stupid whore!" And he grasped up the empty rum bottle and threw it across the room so that it shattered into a dozen singing pieces. "I've lost everythin'! It be all at the bottom of the sea!" And he rose from the bed and limped towards her, his eyes wide and wild, a snarl about his mouth. "All that I lived and worked for these last twelve years, gone! Taken from me, now, when not in tempest and hurricane all these long years have I ever been robbed of that which be rightfully mine! And now, now the sea chooses to claim my ship – my Siren – and all upon her for herself. That's what I mean, ye daft hussy!"

He raised his hand to strike her and she gasped and flinched and he caught himself, instead burrowing his hand deep into her hair, grasping her there so that she whimpered; his eyes playing upon her face in a maddened, furious dance.

Then, sharply pushing her from him he let go and paced her room, his limp pronounced and his lip curled. She felt tears rising hot behind her eyes at his cruelty but knew it would not serve her well to shed them now and instead turned back quick towards the fire and the hissing pot, silently obeying his command.

When the water was mixed, she turned to him with the basin, the merest tremble in her hands and the slightest fear in her eyes and silently, he undressed. As he did so, he drew from within his vest something square shaped and wrapped up in stained rags that he placed besides him on the bed. She heard the chink of coin and guessed it was the last of whatever he might have of all his worldly possessions. And she could not help but think of the portrait of his long dead wife, now lost to the inky depths.

As he stripped off his pants she saw that his knee was roughly bandaged and that he winced slightly as he unwrapped the strip of cloth that bound it to reveal a messy wound, swollen and bloody though it did not yet seem infected.

"Caught." He said shortly to her enquiring glance, and she flushed. "On a splintered mast." And his voice was bitter. She rose silently and went to her wardrobe where from a drawer she withdrew an old linen shift and rent it into strips for clean bandages. Another drawer revealed a myriad of small coloured glass bottles and packets and from this motley assortment she identified some lavender and myrrh oil and took them to where Barbossa wearily sopped himself. Using one of the strips of fabric she carefully freshened the wound until the dried blood was thoroughly removed, then applied the oils. "It'll 'elp" she explained briefly and then wound the fresh linen tight about his knee, fastening it securely so that the knot was tucked under. Barbossa said nothing, but finished his toilet and stiffly drew on his pants once more with some difficulty of movement that made her want to move to assist him, but knew better than to. Once they were fastened he lay back against her pillows, bare-foot and bare-chested and called for another bottle of rum. Wordlessly, she fetched it for him and as she delivered it to his hand, slipped the ruby ring from her thumb and passed that to him as well.

Distractedly he lifted it to his line of sight and then his eyes widened as he recognised it as his own property and he sat up from the cushions.

"Where did ye get this from, Missy?" He demanded.

She sat down next to him and took a swig from her own gin bottle. "Some cad as goes by the name Sparrow. He owed me some money and I took that to square it."

Barbossa turned the ring over and over in his hand, gazing at it in mute contemplation. "Thought it t'were thieved from me in Trinidad. I aspose I be owin' that whore an apology."

She felt herself stiffen a little at that but Barbossa seemed not to notice and slipped the ring back upon his middle finger. "I don't take to liftin' me hand against a woman unless she be deservin' it. It seems she didn't. Sparrow, ye say?" Evie nodded. "Don't recall him."

"Young fella. Showed up as of late. Couple o' missin' teeth. Dreadlocks and a flashy manner."

Barbossa pursed his lips and his brow furrowed slightly as if straining through the fog of memory. "I were in a celebratory fashion in Trinidad. T'was a few weeks after last I saw ye and I had what I thought were a promisin' voyage ahead and drank to suit it. All the taverns were abrimmin' and I exchanged many a word with many a whelp."

"Reckons 'e's a captain. Got 'is own ship apparently – The Black somethin' or other." And Barbossa pricked up at that and he drank hard of his rum to mask the twitch of irritation on his lip.

"Aye. I recall now. Fool of a fellow, to be sure and a mite over interested in ghost stories. Ye say he had this?"

Evie nodded and Barbossa stared hard at her and then back at the ring. "Ye be a good lass." He said finally, soft and gruff and her spirits restored themselves somewhat. "You look 'alf-starved" she declared. "Let me fetch you supper." And Barbossa glanced at her from the corners of his eyes and lay back against the pillows, pulling towards him the ragged bundle. "Hold a moment. I'll be damned if I live off the back of a whore." He swore and pulled from the bundle a purse of coin, fetching a few pieces from it and pressing them into her hand. As he did so she caught sight of what else was in the bundle – the little carved box. Why, she had all but forgotten it. Its carved mermaids and manticores seemed to wink at her as Barbossa's movements shifted it a little and she once more could not draw her eyes from it. He caught her gaze and gave a short, sharp laugh, tossing one corner of the rags so that they obscured the box from view once more. "Aye, it survived too, the wretched thing. And to it, ye may attribute me misfortune, though I am loathe to be rid of it just yet."

She reached over to stroke his cheek, longing to kiss him but feeling he was not in a mood to tolerate such affections just yet. "Will you be vexed if I ask you what you mean?"

And a half-smile twisted his mouth.

"T'was not the box, so to speak, but the map it contained that so caused me ruin. But the map, and its other contents, be too valuable still to condemn to the depths." He paused a moment as though considering whether to continue, then queried in a vague tone: "What have you heard tell of Charbydis and Scylla?"

Her face contorted at the strange names. "Nothin' that I can think of."

"Then no matter," he muttered and turned back to his thoughts. She waited a moment, but he said no more and so she turned on her heel and left to brave the night.

He was asleep when she returned and she felt a bloom of tenderness swell within her at the sight. Placing the suppers on the hearth to keep them warm she quickly undressed and slid her naked form in beside him curving her body against the crook of his back, knowing that the feel of her breasts against his flesh was one he much relished. Her fingertips curled in his chest hair and she laid kisses upon his shoulder and quietly waited for him to be rested, and awake.

She was woken herself, sometime later though how long she could not guess at, by Barbossa lips upon her breast and his hand deep between her thighs. His mouth soon followed suit and she gasped and knotted her hands in his hair at the much-missed pleasure. His lips had not lost any of their skill nor attention to detail and she luxuriated in the sensations she so rarely knew. Her climax poured over her like hot butter, her hips shuddering. He raised himself up, his chest sliding against her breasts before faltering and stifling a curse against her neck. He fell to his side and urged her back against him, pulling her leg up and over his hip so that he could enter her in this fashion without further straining his injury – or surrendering his control.

To feel the gentle stretch of him within her was but further bliss and she grasped the hand that cupped her breast and arched her throat to his lips as he took his pleasure of her. He bit her ear and groaned with his final ecstasy and she could not help the wave of satisfaction that filled her.

With wine he devoured his supper, for she had thought to get some, and twice as much to dine upon as well and he finished the lot of it, and by the close of their late candle-lit meal beneath her coverlets, a gleam akin to the one of old had taken spark within his eye and a small smile played about his lips, and she flattered herself she had something to do with it.

The next evening she awoke to the noise of Barbossa fastening his sword about his waist, a grim visage of determination set on his features. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, pondering this sudden activity and wishing him back to bed with her. But he drank heartily of rum and pulled on his boots and when he spied her woken eyes watching him he bid her rise at once and dress to step out with him.

"The time for self-pityin' be at end. This eve we will be out to round up what be left of me crew and procure meself a new ship." Already his back was straighter and his shoulders thrown back and the confidence to the jut of his chin made her wonder what he was thinking of.

"What's in your 'ead, m'love?" She queried, and Barbossa lifted his roughened hand and gazed at the ring that gleamed darkly there before replying with a single word:

"Sparrow."


	9. Chapter 8

"I don't want to!" Evie insisted and a scowl contorted Barbossa's face.

"Ye'll do as ye are bid, wench!" He growled, his voice a soft purr that skimmed the hairs of her neck. But blow it all, he wasn't her husband and she not his property and she was feeling sorely weary of his domineering air. Since when had he got the idea his coin purchased her deeds beyond the bedroom anyhow? So she pouted, crossed her arms hard across her breast and flounced over to the fireplace where she the jut of her chin was stubborn and the flare of her nostrils sheer bold-faced defiance.

A great dark frown creased Barbossa's countenance, pulling the corners of his mouth downwards, bearing hard on his brows as though they were weighted and he unfolded his long body from the chair, to stand in an attitude of looming tension, shoulders scooped forward and hands in loose fists at his side. He said nothing more but stood and stared at her and between him and the fire she grew more than a little uneasy.

"What you want me to do it for?" Her voice was a trifle desperate. "What good can I be? And what will you do, with me off like that, with nowt to entertain you up 'ere?"

"If I feel the need for company, I'll procure the services of Giselle" he retorted and oh, that stung sharply indeed and she felt certain that he'd said it deliberately, that he saw deep into her despite all pretensions not to and she grew more tormented.

"That Sparrow is a thief is what 'e is!" she burst out. "'Ow would it seem to the other blighters if I took back a thievin' customer? They'd all think they could pull a fast one on me! I won't fuckin' do it, no not even if you beat the brains from me, you great brute!" And now she even stomped her foot and half expected the temper she'd seen flare up infrequent to lead him to do just that – well had he not made allusions to beating whores before?

But he did not fly at her from across the room, but merely settled his face into a neutral expression, raising a hand to his hip.

"Is it more gold ye want?"

Why were men such bleeding fools! "Just because I'm a whore doesn't mean all things can be bought of me!" she shrieked and slammed her fist into the mantle in a fit of temper that much resembled his a day or so prior. A candlestick toppled and hit the mantle with a clunk. His eyebrows darted all the way up his brow but a little chuckle escaped his lips when she winced and nursed her smarting hand. Striding over to her, he took her hand gently between his own and laid a warm kiss upon it, rubbing it softly between his calloused palms.

"Now, now," he soothed. "'Tis for me that ye be doin' it after all. Don't vex yeself so, for it grieves me to see ye in such a temper, hair all on end and face aflush. I would much rather, as it were, see ye so dishevelled beneath me." With one hand he pushed her hair back off her face and cupped her cheek in his palm. "I have lost much and have much to regain – and the truth of it is, I couldn't do it with ye, tendin' to me as ye did or now, in what I ask ye to do. My wee treasure – my little Evie." He pulled her against him, muffling her fast against his chest and she closed her eyes tight shut at the feel of him, the firmness of his body. And how rarely he spoke her name – it was always wench, missy or whore. How rarely Evie. She stretched her arms about him, feeling the slender, strong arc of his back swell with each inhalation and how lovely it was to feel him so great and strong – next to her petiteness, he was broad and large and there was some delicious comfort to being lost amidst the folds of his clothes, that tang of sweat, alcohol, brine and apples that so defined him filling her senses. She felt her resolve flounder. "Will ye not help a man wretched and ruined?" He continued softly, stooping so that his lips might dance sweetly over her hair. And she knew what her answer was to be.

Tortuga blazed and crackled with the jesting and laughter of a thousand delirious souls. The pouring of rum, the chink of coins, the clang of swords all swirled together and melded with the grunts of copulating couples, the crack of pistol fire and the bang and crash of inebriated instruments to form some chaotic symphony that rent the moist dark night in several places, like a whore's stockings caught on rusty nails.

Evie sat upon an enormous barrel outside of one tavern, legs dangling over the sides and drinking in the cacophony of visions that surrounded her. Men brawled, men sang, men supported each other's drunken bodies, men wept and embraced each other, men belched and embraced a whore, men tipped back their heads and emptied great tankards down their throats. The nights were beginning to get dryer again and her dress was of the thinnest pale yellow with silk flowers dressed in her curls and her lips a deep carmine. She looked pretty and fresh and shuffled her card deck expertly, crossing her shapely ankles over each other so that they were turned most attractively for those that passed and so high did she sit that those ankles were near on eyelevel to all.

But Evie was careful not to make eyes at any one fellow in particular, because it was one fellow in particular that she waited for. And soon enough, he came, squeezing out from between the bodies that crowded the tavern door, rather like, Evie thought to herself, a cockroach from the cracks in a wall.

Evie riffled her card deck loudly, the sound like a peal of gunshots and called out to her target as he lurched past:

"Fancy a tumble, Jackie boy?"

Sparrow whirled on his heel and eyed the young whore up and down inquisitively; his gaze going from her cards, to her bosom, which strained the laces of her bodice considerably, and then back to her cards again.

"Of which sort do you speak, young Missy?"

She winked, her eyes sparkling in the lantern light. "Whatever sort you fancy, my fine fellow."

"Well." Jack clicked his tongue and paced deliberately towards the barrel. "This is a turn of affairs."

Evie wrinkled her nose and tossed back her hair. "What d'you mean? We're all squared up now, remember? I've no objection to a little sport with you, whether it be upon the card table, or under it as it were." And she smiled, small square teeth bared.

Sparrow hovered a moment, eyes turned upwards to her, an attitude of deep consideration upon him. Bronzed skin, missing teeth, matted hair, all that and yet there was still an edge of naivety upon him that Evie had long ago lost. But she could sniff it upon others and what she sniffed upon Jack now was youthful romanticism. Captain he might call himself, but he was every bit as green as the exuberant deckhands on their first voyage and all swept up in the possibility of the enormous, roiling green garden of the sea. Evie clucked, shook her head tittering.

"Never mind then, lad. Off you go to safer company." And turned back to her cards. So of course, Sparrow flicked her a couple of coins and offered her his arm.

Barbossa had deserted her room, that they could conduct their business in private and for a moment she pondered where it could be he had retreated to, what hot and boozy corner of Tortuga he now entertained himself in. Perhaps he was with what remained of his crew – Bo'sun, and a few others – or perhaps he had done as he threatened, and gone off with Giselle. Her face grew hot to think of it. If he must make sport with another, did it have to be a pal of hers? But Sparrow had put his dirty boots up on the bed and she darted over to knock them off.

"Oy! Careful there! You ain't movin' in, you know!" Picking up a bottle of rum from the sideboard she hid the grimace on her face and sat down besides Sparrow who moved to put his arm about her shoulders.

"So what game are we to be playin' then? I'm a dab hand at almost any sort you care to name!" And he smiled in what he must have thought was a seductive manner.

Evie thrust the rum bottle in his hand and urged him to drink. "'Ow would a boy like yourself know the kind of games a woman most enjoys, eh?" Her tone was teasing, her eye glittered and Sparrow feigned insult, accepting the rum. "I've a few years on you, young strumpet and I wager a mite more mileage as well; though that'd be a close one I admit." And chugged heartily of the rum. Evie scoffed and tossed her hair, leaning back upon her elbows, knowing that in this position her breasts were most prettily displayed and her pelvis tilted forwards.

"You know what I reckon? I reckon you're nothing more than the son of a swell what didn't like taking orders for your pa and nicked off with 'is ship!"

Sparrow joined her against the pillows, head resting upon an elbow, rum bottle clenched in other hand and gave her a gap-toothed grin. "Not so bright as your eyes, then, love. I've been about the world long enough to learn things that'd make even your toes curl."

And Evie goaded him further, ensuring his tongue was further whetted not just by her teasings but by the rum she continued to supply in abundance and Jack Sparrow grew more and more loquacious and less and less cautious with Evie removing not much more than a stocking, and unbuttoning her bodice, until finally they came upon the topic that Barbossa wanted most to know about.

"It's not a ghost story!" Jack protested and Evie scorned him. "Oh it is, Jackie boy, don't try and be tricky with me!"

"It's not!" He insisted and gestured for more rum, which she swiftly provided. "I swear upon my honour that every word is true. Well, except for all that curse nonsense. But I'm tellin' you, right now love, the Isla de Muerta is a real place and there is a real treasure upon it and mark my words, my fine sweetheart, your humble Captain Sparrow is goin' to find it and then he is goin' to be a very. Wealthy. Man." He punctuated his final word with another gulp of the liquor and then squared a challenging look at Evie as though to dare her to contradict him. Evie guffawed and whacked Sparrow upon the arm. "'Ow are you supposed to find an Island what nobody can find unless they already know where it is, eh?"

"Ah!" Jack held up a finger and looked triumphant. "Ah ah ah! Precisely. As it so happens, I already know where it is!"

Evie stopped at that and eyed the intrepid young Captain curiously. "Do you now? And 'ow did you 'appen to come by that piece of information?"

Sparrow went to answer and then halted mid-gasp, as though thinking twice. "A gift. From a friend. Close friend. "

Evie raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips at Jack. "Someone gave you the location as a gift?"

Sparrow looked almost imperceptibly shifty. "Aye, aye love. And now I be seekin' a crew to sail with me to said Island and claim the grand treasure for ourselves, so that we might retire as gentlemen and live the rest of our lives enjoyin' the spoils. A good plan, is it not?"

Evie rolled back, looking hard into Sparrow's eyes and grasped the rum bottle, taking a generous swig for herself. "'Ave you 'ad much luck?"

Sparrow's eyeballs slid left. Then up. Then back down. "No." He admitted finally. "Not so many as wants to shail after an unknown treasure with an unknown Captain as it happens. Nincompoops, the lot of 'em."

"So this treasure," Evie pondered. "Is a chest fill to brim with solid gold pieces – close to a thousand of 'em, you reckon – and it's on a far off island and 'as been for close to two 'undred years without no one seein' 'ide nor 'air of it, and your plan is to go after it with a rum bunch of scallywags and snatch it all up."

"Aye!" Sparrow grinned drunkenly and jerking his head in discombobulated fashion. "Aye, that be about the shum of it. "

Evie rolled her eyes and shook her head at the fellow. "You're a nutter, Jack Sparrow, and there's no doubt about that. You givin' the lads any sort of guarantee?"

Jack looked insulted and snatched the rum bottle back. "What guarantee is there, young Missy, when one chooses to shail upon the seas? The only guarantee is that the sea will alwaysh be there, whether fierce, calm, kind or cruel, and that to sail upon her you musht be an adventurer! That'sh what I seek! Adventurersh!" Jack's head was beginning to loll and his words increasingly difficult to articulate. "Or there's no point in shailing with Captain Jack Shparrow!" He managed with a Herculean effort to draw the bottle up to his lips once more and took a sip. "Now, are you adventurer enough to board my ship, young Mishy, for my masht is shtandi –ng – very – sh –" and quite suddenly, he was unconscious upon the bed, the rum bottle hugged tight against his chest. Evie leant over the prostrated form and slapped him about the face a bit – not taking much care to be gentle. Sparrow didn't stir. A thoughtful look upon her face, Evie refastened her garments, drew out her card deck, and waited.

It was not so long before she heard a faint footfall on the stairwell beyond and not long after that it grew louder until it trod finally upon the landing. She could tell by the sound and weight of the steps that it were a man out there and sure enough, a moment later, her door was opened and Barbossa let himself in.

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly to see Sparrow still there but Evie merely shrugged and gestured with her head to the rum bottle. Barbossa's following grin was sly.

"Did he have ye?" Was not the first question Evie had expected to hear, but she concealed her surprise by looking down to her cards.

"Does it matter?"

She felt him frown, as though the change in his expression altered the air about them, and felt a grim satisfaction. Let him wonder!

"Did ye learn anythin' of use to me, then, wench?" His tone was sour and so she raised herself from the bed and went to the sideboard, pouring him a generous glass of wine and delivering to his hands with a bright smile and an eager kiss.

"The Island is called Isla de Muerta and apparently it can't be found 'cept by those what already knows where it is – and Sparrow just 'appens to 'ave a very good friend what does and was nice enough to share with 'im. As to why the friend 'asn't gone after the treasure themselves, 'e was mum to that. It's a treasure all right, just as you thought, but not the usual sort. It's gold of the Aztecs, close to a thousand pieces of it if you believe 'im – not that I'd be quick to - " and she shot the unconscious Sparrow a glare, " – and all of it untouched for years and years."

Barbossa grinned and took two or three steps closer to the bed to gaze critically at Sparrow. "Now, that be a far elaborated version of what he's been goin' about town with."

"Oh, and apparently," Evie piped in, pouring a glass of wine for herself, "the treasure is all cursed. If you take it, you're damned. Damned to endless existence, whatever that means."

Barbossa cocked a brow and his lips contorted in amusement. "Is that so? He most certainly has been leavin' that part of the tale out."

"'E didn't rate it much." Evie joined Barbossa by the bed, gazing disdainfully down at the snoring pirate. "Apparantly was put upon the gold by the Aztec Gods as punishment to all peoples what wasn't Aztec. Somethin' to do with some Spaniard what vexed 'em."

Barbossa lifted a hand to the back of Evie's neck and stroked her there. "Good lass."

"What do you reckon?"

"I know nowt of those Gods or in what ways they work, but I'd be inclined to believe it's more than a little fancy on the fool's part – told to impress a whore who'd loosened his tongue. A long-vanished treasure, or so he claimed in Trinidad, of impressive quantity. A thousand pieces is certainly impressive. But what concerns me – where my interest truly lies – is with his ship. "

Barbossa's eyes glittered and Evie felt a shiver down her spine as she watched him gaze so intently at Sparrow. It brought to mind that cat and mouse business again, to see him with such a look of dangerous concentration on his face. It thrilled and frightened her at once.

"Sparrow might not be a name renowned, but his ship be known as something of a legend. " He whispered. "The Black Pearl. It be the true treasure here."

And as he towered over the bed, his shadow cast dark over Sparrow's form, the latter suddenly opened his eyes and regained consciousness. He squinted at Barbossa at first then his eyes widened with a vague alarm – and some sort of weary familiarity - and he made a pawing grab for his sword. Unfortunately, he had unbuckled it upon first entering Evie's room and it lay now on the chair at her dresser. Sheepishly, he grinned, seeming to mistake Barbossa's solemn expression for fury, and raised an explanatory finger.

"I'm not shure if yer aware of thish, mate," Jack slurred. "But your shtrumpet ish a whore. Hate to be the bearer of bad newsh, but if your going to evisherate me, then ash a point of honor, you ought to evisherate all of her previoush clientele. And ash that would be imposhible; it ish only jusht you shpare me ash well. Mm?"

Much to Jack's visible confusion, Barbossa merely threw back his head and laughed. "Do I look the sort of man who's wench would have one over on?" He demanded of Sparrow, who cowered back against the coverlet before managing another grin as the situation did not descend into the violent blood bath he evidently thought awaited him. "Evie, my treasure, the lad and I here be needin' another drink."

Knowing enough to know she was no longer part of the game, Evie scurried off obediently to fetch another bottle of rum whilst Barbossa hauled her chair over to the side of the bed, and Jack lurched upwards, one hand fumbling in his messy locks.

"'Ave we met?" He bewilderingly queried of Barbossa, squinting hard upon him in the dim candle glow – Evie's candles were burnt almost to their wick. Barbossa merely smiled charmingly and took the glass of rum Evie proffered. "Not that I can recall." He replied, and took a long draught. Jack looked woozily at his glass as though seriously contemplating whether or not to chance it. By then Barbossa had finished his and held out his glass for a top up.

"Come on, lad!" He commanded Jack. "Drink! Ye be in port. Is that not occasion to make merry, even for a beardless boy as yeself?"

Jack winced and managed a half-smile before forcing himself to down a good half of his rum. Evie could not help but enjoy his discomfort. Barbossa thrust out a hand to Sparrow and requested the honour of knowing who he drank with.

"Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service." Jack managed a flourish with his introduction, as though his full title were not one he could grow weary of sharing. "May I have the honour of knowin' same then?"

"Ca – Barbossa." Barbossa finished shortly and drank again. Jack frowned, his dark brows meeting almost in the centre.

"Barbossa, eh? Well, I mayn't of met you, but I have heard of you. Weren't you of late a Captain of a great ship?"

Evie could see the stiff tremor that ran down Hector's neck and gripped his shoulders, but he continued to smile and shrugged his shoulders as though to say Ah!

"A man of the sea knows how quick the winds change. And change for me they did. "

Jack tipped his glass in Barbossa's direction. "Well I'm sorry to be hearin' that."

Barbossa nodded and tipped his own glass. "Thank ye." And together they drank. Evie could not help but notice that now all whisper of danger was past, Jack seemed to have recovered mighty swift from his severe state of drunkenness. Rum bugger. Once finished, Barbossa gestured to Evie who went to him and was pulled upon his knee and there she was nestled with one of his calloused palms sliding comfortably into her bodice.

Seeing their intimacy, Sparrow grew nervous again and hastened to exclaim: "I want you to know, mate, that nothin' transpired between the young lady here and I, nothin' but a bit of friendly conversation, as it were. " He grinned ingratiatingly and nodded at Evie. "Isn't that right, love?"

And Barbossa's sharply amused eyes slid to her. "Is that so, m'love?"

Evie tried not to pout at her secret betrayed. "You passed out afore anythin' could!" She snapped at Sparrow and felt the rumble of Barbossa's chuckle reverberate through her. Blast that Sparrow! She turned her back on his as much as she could in her snug position and let her fingers play in Barbossa's beard. Where her thigh swelled to meet her hip she could feel the stirrings of his organ and wondered if it were her touch or her humiliation that so roused him.

"And what is it for you now, Barbossa, if your ship is lost to the depths?" Jack conveniently at once opened the door for Barbossa and sealed his own fate. Barbossa took care to treat the enquiry casually, lifting his shoulders.

"What I be seekin' now is a new opportunity – though Captain no more, a man of the sea I still be. Nay, but I must be resigned to humble myself as a crew man to another Captain, take me loses as I would me winnin's. It would not see me swiftly ascend the ranks if I sit idle upon land, now would it, Mr Sparrow?"

"No, indeed." Jack agreed. "And have you procured yourself this other Captain then, eh?"

Barbossa scowled in distaste and shifted Evie upon his lap, the better that she might rub against his cock. "I much regret to say I have not, Sparrow. The Captains in this miserable pit – they lack vision. Seek nothin' more than to go over paltry merchant ships to take their spoils in spices and silks. How would I ever to be affordin' a new ship if all I've got to show for me service is silver spoons and watch fobs, mm?"

"How indeed!" Sparrow waved his arms about and gulped down another drink hastily. He was well drunk and betraying his mounting excitement in spite of himself. "I can entirely sympathise, my friend. I happen to be seekin' out a crew at this very moment and find myself plagued by much the same trouble: lack of vision!"

Barbossa raised his chin to Jack and his eyebrows darted up delicately. "Is that so."

"Aye. It is." Sparrow noted his cup was empty and waggled it queryingly at Evie who rolled her eyes and leaned over to refill it with the rum bottle she kept close by. "A great opportunity I offer them, a chance for adventure such as the likes of which they've never known and what do they do? Belch and pass out! It's a tragedy, it is."

Barbossa smiled and stroked Evie's hair, his other hand still cupping her breast. "What opportunity is this then, lad?"

And Jack recounted the tale of the Isla de Muerta. He neglected to mention the Curse; though whether that was so as not to seem dissuasive, or because he thought nothing of it, Evie could not say.

Barbossa nodded as though impressed at the close of the tale. "Sounds like it be a right pretty pot ye be goin' after, Sparrow. The sort ye could use a man with twenty-seven years experience on the sea for."

"Well, see here Barbossa!" Jack exclaimed, as though the idea had only just come to him. "Why don't you join me on my venture and we'll split the treasure equal like – ought to be more than enough for you to procure your own ship once more or at least get a ruddy good start about it – and I wouldn't insult your ample experience than offer anythin' less than First Mate. What say you to that then?"

Barbossa bared his teeth in a grin. Jack did not know that grin; but Evie did. It was wicked as a shark's. "Ye know, Jack, if I take up with ye, others will be more inclined to as well. I dare say I can convince enough to give ye not less than a full, able-bodied crew."

And Evie knew, that somewhere out in the stinking hot night, the Bo'sun waited to hear from Barbossa.

Jack's grin was all shameless charm. "Why, I'd be honoured to set sail with a fellow whose reputation stands as yours does, then Barbossa."

Barbossa's smile had faded to a mere twinge upon his lips and he held Jack's eyes for a long moment before offering his hand over Evie's body. "Then, we have an accord."

"Indeed we do!" and Jack shook firmly.

And though she knew it was what Barbossa had wanted, still Evie could not help but feel in that handshake portended something decidedly unsettling.

Later, when Sparrow had departed, lurching in a sway that left Evie wondering if he'd make it through the night to Captain the Pearl in one piece, she clattered away the empty bottles into a corner of her room – all the evidence of the bargain that had been struck there that night, and a humble whore's room it might be but that bargain had reeked of a disquieting significance – and stripped wearily down to her chemise, laying her hair ornaments amongst a cluttered rainbow of others on her dresser. Barbossa returned, having walked Sparrow out to the streets below, one firm hand about the lad's shoulder, chuckling to himself with no small ounce of smugness.

"We'll be leavin' on the morrow!" Barbossa declared.

"Already?" Evie bit her tongue at the plaintiveness that had escaped into her voice.

"Aye, wench, afore the sun has finished risin'. I meet with me Bo'sun before dawn, he'll gather together what was left from the Siren and more besides – more than enough of a crew for Captain Jack Sparrow!" He spat these last words with vicious mockery and kicked his boots off. His knee was slowly beginning to heal and he moved a great deal easier than he had two days ago. Evie crossed by him to the sideboard for her gin, but did not lift her gaze to look at him. There was an uneasiness she could not shake from her shoulders, no matter how big a gulp of gin she took to send a shiver through her. Barbossa's arms slipped about her waist from behind and his lips found her neck, kissing her there softly, and again. He kissed his way up to her ear, where his hot breath brought gooseflesh up on her neck, and then down again, his hands sliding upwards to first cup and then fondle her breasts. Evie moaned and pushed against him, feeling his erectness dig into the small of her back. Barbossa's mouth, lips, teeth continued to assail her flesh as his hands pulled her chemise downwards, baring her breasts and she arched her back in response to the feeling of rough skin sliding against her own softness. He whirled her around to crush her against him, grasping her arms tight and kissing her hard. In that kiss she felt a piece of herself crumble, plummet downwards into a darkness where there was nothing but the sensation of his lips upon her own, kissing her lips numb, then fiery, then bruised, his tongue darting about hers, his teeth nipping her lightly as the fancy took him. He lifted her chemise up and over her head then stretched her out onto the bed and covered her body with his own, his hands pinning her wrists to the bed above her head, his mouth seeking out her nipples and playing upon them until they grew so tender she thought she climax from that alone. Her cunny was alive and throbbing and she rubbed it against his stomach in the ache to get some relief but still he continued to tease her. She writhed beneath him and felt herself grow wetter until the coverlet beneath her was slick with her juices. Finally, he left her breasts and his lips blazed a trail downwards, down to where her sex opened to him like a ripe fruit, hot and swollen and his tongue darted as tormentingly as could be. So long had she waited for him to give her some satisfaction that the merest flicker of his tongue sparked a thousand little flames of pleasure and within a few quick strokes she climaxed violently and with noisy enjoyment. Rising up onto his knees, Barbossa watched the last tremors of her pleasure pass through her, unbuttoning his pants and withdrawing his cock, long and thick and exactly the thing Evie needed most now. He stroked it a few times in an idle fashion though it was hard as could be, gazing down at her spread-eagled beneath him before placing his hands upon her thighs and spreading her even wider then driving into her one hard, firm stroke. She gasped at the pleasure of it, to be taking forcefully without mindless brutality, to be taken properly without faltering ineffectualness. She grasped his arms and squeezed the muscles there, enjoying the mingled expression of fervour and ecstasy on his face as he fucked her. Her breasts bounced with the rhythm of his rutting and he bent over far enough to grasp one nipple between his teeth, biting until she squealed. He withdrew, turned her over onto her knees and entered her purposefully in this fashion, grasping her hips, a grunt punctuating his every thrust. It felt good to be fucked so vigorously, so assuredly, to be devoured whole from within and she let herself slump forward and enjoy the sensation. From here he could drive into her more deeply and more roughly and soon all that was left of her were her hips where his fingertips dug, her arse and her cunny, consumed with a fiery sort of bliss. She swooned into the coverlet and let herself be fucked into oblivion, moaning only when one of his hands left her hips to grasp first her shoulder, then knot itself in her hair and his pounding grew harder still and gasps were coming from him now, quiet, swallowed but still there, bursting from his lips until finally, driving against her so hard she thought her hips might shatter, he came in one low growl and she felt the pulse of his spendings within her and closed her eyes in satisfaction, moving one hand between her legs so that she might gently stroke her swollen sex.

He did not withdraw from her immediately, but played his hands upon her back, lifting her hair up and off her neck, running his hands down her spine, stroking her shoulders. It was lovely, this gentleness, after the aggression of his rutting and she remained very still, and smiled to herself. For some long moments he petted her gently until, with an aching groan, he pulled away and stretched out on the mattress next to her. She edged closer to him so that she might lay her head upon his chest and he encircled her with his arms, his eyes shut and a short sigh escaping from his lips to dart up to the canopy above them. If only every fuck were like that! She thought, and though she was sore it had been sorely worth it and a right good note to part on. The long night of drinking, of scheming, of fucking finally began to take their toll upon Evie and her head grew heavy and delirious with the need to sleep. Just as she felt herself begin to slip under, Barbossa roused himself, sitting up so quickly she grew giddy by the disruption and wondered what he was about.

"There be but a scant few hours left to this night, wench." He barked and fetched her deck of cards from the sideboard. "Get some of yer beloved coca leaf into your cheek and chew heartily. Ye'll learn this well before I depart."

And with what was left of that hot and muddled night, he taught her how to cheat.


	10. Chapter 9

"OY!" Evie shrieked and flapped her shawl at the monkey, who, quick as lightning, grasped hold of her banana, leapt in a blur of brownish gold to the poster of her bed and from there scampered up the velvet curtains to the canopy where he perched and made light work of the fruit, chattering at her the whole time.

"You rum little blighter!" Evie scowled in disbelief. "You savage little thief! 'Ave you got any idea 'ow scarce fresh bananas are in this God-forsaken 'ell 'ole?"

The monkey grinned and chirruped something in response. Something smart, no doubt, thought Evie grimly. Little bastard.

With a sigh she turned back to her soup and bread, at least there were a few choice cuts of fish in the soup and the bread crusty. But bananas - fresh, ripe bananas - were a delicacy Tortuga did not yield often and she was quick to glut on as many as she could when they did appear, expensive as they were. Strangely, on six or seven bananas a day, she often felt lighter and more cheerful - like she was munching on a little slice of sun, she would sometimes think and then blush, for that were a girl's fancy. As for the monkey - what had she been thinking? He'd turned up on the docks of Tortuga between a pile of slightly damp, rolled up carpets, a motley jumble of hats, gloves, shoes and miscellany such as buttons, spectacles, watches and cufflinks and a large, water-stained writing desk. In a cage he was, and mewling most piteously, wrinkling his brow at her when she paused to examine a golden reticule from the debris next to him. The cage was far too small and the little creature's face was most eloquent in its attitudes and she felt a pang of very real compassion upon seeing his plight. Poor little devil, squished into that nasty-smelling cage, amidst all this broken trash, yelled and poked at all the day long. Why, he just needed a mum is all, someone to give him a cuddle now and then and good meals thrice a day. And what about her, wouldn't it be nice to have a little companion like that, not like a cat or dog but almost baby-like, what could do tricks and sit on her shoulder and chatter to her while she prepared for work and curl in her hair as she slept. And she had felt all warm inside at the thought and purchased him.

Things had not turned out quite as she had imagined. The monkey was a menace. He stole things, pulled her hair, soiled her furnishings, used his food as missiles, careened himself from one end of her room to the other heedless of what he might break and screeched endlessly at her. If she scolded him, he scolded her back. If she put something out of his reach, then all his thoughts were bent to acquiring it. If she had something upon her plate that she especially savoured - like a banana, she thought, glaring at the cheeky bugger as his cheeks bulged with the sweet yellow flesh atop her bed - that he must have it. And then, when her customers were up, he feigned jealousy (for she was sure he disliked her as much as she him given that not once would he sit upon her lap or her shoulder or let her pet him) and screamed endlessly at the men. He discovered a great sport in dropping onto their heaving buttocks from above right at the critical moment so that they shrieked and jerked backwards, their pleasure ruined. She would of got rid of him now if she could only have got her hands upon him - for he was very careful to keep out of her reach. She had half a mind to simply leave her door open - but she was not so heartless as that, for the streets of Tortuga would not be kind to a wretched little monkey, nor would its half-starved dogs and cats. Evie swigged from her bottle of gin and levelled a steely glare at the monkey, who finished the banana and let the skin drop to the carpet below. But just let him steal one more banana and then test how cold her heart was, by God...

Evie finished chewing and carried the gin bottle to her bed where she pulled the curtains shut hard about her - couldn't count her money in front of the wretched thing for he'd like as not scarper off with a piece or two as he'd done the other day. Two gold bits, the little brat, and she hadn't a clue where he'd squirrelled them away. She daren't even secrete any more of her earnings into the bed post, for he'd be sure to catch it and investigate and then where would she be? Scowling so hard she near choked on her gin, Evie dumped her coins out on the mattress and began to count. What had she been thinking, for pity's sake, she didn't need another mouth to feed - and she'd be off to Bessie Bunton quick as a flash if such a misfortune ever visited her ton get rid of the thing - her bleed was due, that's why she'd had that ridiculous moment of sentimentality and the little devil had known just how to play her!

A warning screech came from beyond the curtains and Evie hastened to hide her coins away before the curtains rustled and the vexing bugger poked his head inbetween then, twittering in his nonsense language.

"What do you want?" she asked crossly. "You got me banana, and there ain't no more. Bugger off!"

The little monkey put his head to the side and stared at her inquisitively and in a moment of frustration she poked her tongue out at him. "No more! And I'm stepping out again... try not to make a mess or I'll sell you to the publican of The Mermaid's Tail who's known all about to use less popular cuts in 'is stews!"

The monkey screeched again and vanished once more behind the velvet, landing with a thump somewhere above her head. She hastened to wrap her money up hard in a kerchief, so that it would not clink about, and secrete it down behind the bed, in a little rodent hole there. But the night was not over yet - she'd stopped only for her supper and intended to make the best of what was left of it. And so it was that a moment later she'd spritzed herself with jasmine water, shaken out her hair, yanked her bodice down an inch or two and shut her door, swearing like a sailor to the imp she left behind.

Outside the night was warm and vibrant; it was close to midnight and many were turning their head to a hot meal and the air was fragrant with the scent of roasting meat and vegetables, frying fish and spices. Evie strolled the street, sipping from her flask of gin, enjoying the comparative peace of the streets as pirate and whore fixed their concentration on a feed. Whilst the men were all so occupied, there would not be much work about but it would do well for her to be seen. So Evie drank and strolled and side-stepped garbage and watched the miscreants shovel food into their mouths, belch, wipe with their sleeves and chug back on their drink. In the frame of one open window, Giselle had draped herself, balancing a joint of meat, a tankard of rum and a fellow who looked like he'd bite any second now.

"Oy Evie, 'ow's tricks!" she sang out, catching sight of her friend and Evie grinned back. "Waitin' for a nibble now!"

Giselle raised her tankard and Evie her flask and together they drank to a profitable night. Before the toast was finished Evie had passed that tavern by and continued on her way, drawing closer to the docks. Small, shabby groups clustered on the roads, sharp laughter splitting the night in bursts, some bold fellows sang out a cheeky remark or two to Evie who responded in kind but for now the Tortuga evening enjoyed a rare moment of rest.

Evie flirted a refill of her flask and two cuts of fowl from a jolly collection of reprobates then neatly extricated herself and found a quiet spot at the end of a wharf, where the inky black water below her lapped gently at the thick, barnacle-encrusted pillars. Thoughts of sea beasts kept her from dangling her legs over the side, or indeed, getting close at all. But with the noise of Tortuga faint behind her and nothing but a wide expanse of midnight blue before her, the cliffs of the cove only dimly outlined against it in this time of the new moon, and the night sky dotted with hundreds of tiny lights she felt a curious and ethereal sense of seperateness, of having stepped outside the world for a moment. It was oddly bewitching and she lifted her face to the whispering sea breeze and gazed at the stars above her. There were so many - there had been times, when she'd had quite overmuch of cocoa leaf that she'd lain on her back on a wharf somewhere and attempted to count their number as they faded into the dawn, but it had always proved an especially fruitless exercise. From what Hector and other sailors said, the stars were used by them to navigate their way through dark nights and she pondered so intimate a relationship. But then again it was not all much different to a whores' knowledge - the peculiar ability to ascertain from only the merest gesture or flicker in the eyes what customers could be dangerous and who would be lamblike; who would be fussy and who would be grateful - who would tip well and who would be tight-fisted. The mood of the air and whether it spoke of a good night's earnings or a hard slog. Even now she could feel things had shifted - what had started as a brisk evening was dwindling to a moderate temperament and she was not much in the mood to overwork herself reeling them in. She took another swig and leaned back on her elbows as a dark shape slid silently into the harbour and coasted towards the port - a late ship - and her spirits perked up somewhat. Sailors, fresh from a haul at sea, would definitely bring new fervour with them and reignite the spark upon Tortuga - if, indeed, their voyage had gone well.

Some way from the wharfs, the dark ship dropped anchor and the deck blazed to life with torches as the unseen crew scrambled for the long boats. The brilliant orange flares moved hastily, swarming down the side of the ship, arresting mere feet above the water and then, clustered together, beginning a rapid and rolling journey towards the docks. Their pace was frenetic and Evie screwed shut her flask and stood, rearranging her skirts and moving back towards the path that led to Tortuga, to be ready to catch the very first that put foot upon solid land once more.

As the long boats drew ever closer, she could hear the cheering of the crew, make out their waving arms - this was a jolly lot to be sure, and from the shadows two or three more whores emerged, as if having smelt the fresh meat upon the breeze. Evie nodded and grinned to them - after all, there was plenty to go about - and they took up their positions, hair loose and shoulders back so that their breasts thrust forward, smiling their brightest and widest.

The longboats were but a few yards now from the docks and she could discern the motley shapes of happy sailors – no, pirates! The ragged higgledy-piggledy of their costumes, their free and easy fashion, their colourful language betrayed them and there, straight and tall with shoulders thrown back, their Captain, for he could hardly be any other, his boot upon the helm of the boat furthermost amongst them, upon his head a large and broad-brimmed hat, a magnificent clutch of feathers spraying upwards from its band.

The dim glow of Tortuga threw a ruddy and faded light upon the dock his boat drew up beside and while his cheerfully cussing men roped it up, he hauled himself upwards and stepped into it and Evie beheld, to no little mixture of delight and astonishment, that it was Barbossa – Barbossa as she had first known him, proud and grand and gazing about him as though he were ruler of all he surveyed.

Perhaps it was the gin, or perhaps it was the welcome break in the monotony of the night, but quite despite herself Evie picked up her skirts and hurtled down the dock towards him. He laughed to see her then caught her up in his arms and swung her about so that she shrieked with joy, burying her face in his neck and inhaling his briny scent. Around them the hoots and calls of the crew filled the air as they danced triumphantly upon solid land once more and chose themselves a whore but Evie was oblivious to all but the solid press of Barbossa's chest against hers and the strength of his arms around her waist.

"'Tis cheerin' to have such a welcome, wench." He declared as he put her upon the ground once more and she felt herself flush.

"Well, it's been a mite dull around these 'ere parts" she offered as explanation and remembered to toss her hair and put her hand upon her hip so that she seemed flirtatious and inviting rather than wistful and needy. He bared his teeth in a snaky grin and put an arm about her shoulders, ushering her towards the town, his limp now much improved but still in evidence.

"Then it be a fortuitous thing we dropped anchor this eve."

"Speakin' of which!" she exclaimed. "'Ow'd you come by that lil number then, eh?" and gestured with a jerk of her head to the anchored ship resting quietly in the bay behind them. Barbossa chuckled and squeezed her shoulder.

"Now, now, Evie, is ye memory so short? "

Evie whirled about to survey the mysterious ship, squinting through the night, but could make nothing of it out. "You don't mean – is that – "

Barbossa's chuckle grew louder. "Aye. That be me Pearl. " He tipped the brim of his hat towards her. "And I be her Captain."

Evie gaped and grasped hold of his arm. "'Ow on earth did you convince Sparrow to part with it?"

And Barbossa's chuckle grew to peals of laughter so that he was obliged to halt his step and declare his merriment to the sky. Somewhat perplexed, Evie observed him sharply. He was once again every inch the magnificent pirate Captain, in a beautiful steel-grey leather jacket studded with shining silver buttons, a very elaborate embroidered vest and a very new and very magnificent deep blue hat. The stoop that had gripped his shoulders upon his last visit was gone, his back was straight and his sword hung shining by his side. But now that she had taken more careful stock of him, he was not quite as he had been before – no, not quite. But what was different?

She did not have the opportunity to ponder that further for with a roar he swung her up into his arms again, kissing her hard upon the mouth. She yielded willingly and supposed his frenetic manner could not really be questioned – he was a man risen from ruin, after all – and how swift an ascent!

"Sparrow, as it turns out," he explained, finishing the kiss, "was much amenable to persuasion."

And would offer no further explanation, hustling her fast through the streets and pausing but long enough to purchase meat, bread and wine, hasty tales of ships conquered and ports sacked in the past few months spilling from his lips and he gestured proudly to the buttons of his jacket:

"Incan silver" he boasted, "melted. Had them made for me special in Barbados." And she duly admired them before slipping a hand down his pants to which he uttered a growl and shoved her up against the nearest wall, a hand grasping her breast and his teeth assaulting her neck and now she giggled and withdrew her hand. "Let's get up to me room first, darlin'" and he hissed his frustration but withdrew his grip. He was indeed in a good mood to heed her so and she found his fervour intoxicating, prompting her to tease in such a way that he chased her up the stairs of the Mason Rouge and came dangerously close to fucking her up against the banister except that she slipped free at the last moment and let them in, breathless and laughing, into her room, illuminated only by the fireplace. He strode to the center of the room, dropping his hat and coat upon her chair and grinned.

"'Tis true what they say about familiar sights being a balm to sore eyes." And the way he fixed his gaze upon her prompted her to smile and lower her eyes. They stood in silence for a moment in the semi darkness, simply looking at each other and Evie felt a warm shiver grip her. Barbossa took a step towards her and a screech split the night as silver eyes flashed from her dresser. They both started and Barbossa unsheathed his sword as she leapt behind him. The shriek died into a pealing chatter and Evie relaxed even as a flash of anger gripped her. That damn monkey!

"Oh bugger you, you little bastard!" she swore and darted over to the dresser as the monkey leapt onto the rug and scampered away. She tossed a hairpin or two after him but they did not come even close to hitting their mark. Barbossa had recovered sufficiently to put down his sword.

"A monkey, wench? How came ye by such a thing, the pickin's been slim?" And he laughed as she threw a handkerchief at him then set to pouring them both a glass of wine.

"Not 'ardly!" she sneered. "The little bugger tricked me into bringin' 'im 'ome and has done nothin' but cause me grief since!"

Barbossa scoffed and kicked off his boots. "Such a closet be no place for a monkey. " He stretched himself out upon the bed and withdrew a shiny green apple from a pocket, and a small knife, carving off a slice. It crunched satisfyingly between his teeth, fresh, crisp sound that roused the monkey from his hiding place to the end of the bed where he fixed round, bright eyes upon Barbossa. Evie watched curiously, her glass of wine arrested at her lips. Barbossa studiously ignored the monkey, instead carving off another slice and devouring it. The next slice he did not eat, but placed close by his side then swiftly cut off another piece and chomped into it with gusto. The monkey crept onto the coverlet, his glittering eyes darting hastily from Barbossa, to the apple slice, and back to Barbossa again, and he dared another short dart forward. Barbossa continued to pay no mind to the monkey, chewing upon his apple and drinking of his wine, and the monkey drew ever closer, his tiny body poised for flight but his desire for the fruit enough to coax him forward.

Finally he came close enough to snatch up the apple in his little paw and dash to the end of the bed once more where he turned wary eyes to the Captain and his long tail quivered. But Barbossa behaved as though nothing had happened and the monkey fell to nibbling his sweet treat with evident delight. Evie pursed her lips in irritation as Barbossa chuckled and gnawed the apple to its core. "What have ye been feedin' him, Missy?" He enquired, gesturing that she should fill his glass, and she mused how easy it was to lose a man's attention.

"Bits and pieces, "she sniffed, pouring the wine."bread, fish, meat…"

"Oh ye daft whore! Such a creature only eats fruit. 'Tis no wonder he's been such a menace, half-starved he'd be."

In a rage she hastily stifled, Evie snatched up a fresh bottle of gin and uncorked it. And how was she to know? If she hadn't rescued the wretched thing he'd probably be a dog's breakfast by now! And as for the Captain who couldn't wait to stick his cock into her but five minutes ago, now all his interest was vested in the dining habits of a stinking monkey! Perhaps she should go back out to turn tricks and leave the two of them to it!

Meanwhile, Barbossa had produced another apple and was proffering a slice to the monkey who eyed it with much longing and Barbossa with much caution. Finally, hunger overwhelmed his fear and he leapt forward, snatched up the fruit and leapt back, almost too quick for the eye to catch. When Barbossa did not shout or lash out the monkey's curiosity was piqued and when the next apple slice appeared he did not hesitate to sidle forward and take it and neither did he retreat but a tiny monkey step or two and nibbled upon the fruit whilst looking all the while at Barbossa with large, wondering eyes. What was left of the apple was given to him next and he squeaked in monkey ecstasy as Barbossa laughed softly: "Clever little scoundrel" Then turned to Evie who stood fuming by the sideboard with gin bottle in hand, his expression altering suddenly to one of vexed demanding.

"Well, wench!" He thundered. "Do ye think ye have kept me waitin' long enough for me satisfaction, or would it amuse ye to deny me but longer?"

Evie gaped in outrage. "What do you mean? I been waitin' on you to finish makin' love to that rotten creature!" She pointed to the glutting monkey who grinned, his cheeks bulging with apple flesh and Barbossa shot a sharp look at the monkey and turned back to her.

"I were passin' the time while ye dawdled! Have ye grown lazy in my absence, then?"

"Oh for pity's sake!" There would be no winning this argument – and she was longing for his touch. She threw herself upon him and he rolled her over and beneath him as their lips joined in a hungry kiss. The monkey shrieked and leapt from the bed, but she paid him no heed – and nor did Barbossa.

He was rough and demanding of her, as though it had been a full year or more since last he had felt the touch of a woman, but she found she did not mind over much. There was a satisfaction in his frenzy, a curiously gratifying sense of being so desired that he paid no heed to the occasional whimpers and gasps his savagery provoked but sought only to satiate his own driving need with the way he twisted her body or took a nipple between his teeth or in the force of his thrusting. There was no wanton cruelty in it, only uninhibited lust and it enflamed her and sent her blood pulsing hot throughout her body.

When his climax abated he lay still atop her for a long moment, the fingers of one hand splayed across her jaw, his nose pressed against her cheek, then exhaled in a long hiss. She was looking directly at him, at the hundreds of fine lines that cracked his skin, the curling wisps of hair that grew from above his lip and chin, and so when he opened his eyes once more she caught in their blue depths something strange and perturbing – a glimmer of distress. And that was something she had never yet glimpsed in him. The warm flush of their rutting was overtaken by a chill but in the next instance he had chuckled and pushed himself up, eyes steely once more.

"I'm nearer fifty than I were a decade ago," he muttered, "It be a fortuitous thing indeed I'll enjoy the last years of me prime in full, Captain of a ship." He retrieved his wine glass from the rug and drained it before his face contorted. "The wine be sour."

Evie leaned over the bed to fetch her own glass for a sip. "I thought it was rather fine." And he harrumphed so she pulled a face at him. "Not that my tongue is as educated as yours!" she mocked and he half-smiled before tugging on her hair.

"And ye've been denied the schoolin's of same this eve, haven't ye?"

She attempted a coy smile and let her legs loll apart invitingly. "I'm ever so eager to learn, Cap'n'!"

And he grinned and moved upon her. Settling back into the pillows she caught sight of the monkey peeking over the end of the bed, watching them and tossed a pillow at him with a scowl. He vanished and she gave herself over to sheer bliss. By the time Barbossa brought her to ecstasy, he was ready to have her again and she welcomed him eagerly. He had been rough with her in the past, many times, particularly if it had been some months between his last port, and always his initial frenzy had been followed by gentleness, a more considered and sensuous pace. Now, however, he was rougher even than before and she was grateful for the lubrication her pleasure had brought her. She was gasping and breathless by the time he was done, and so was he and drenched in a cold sweat that spoke of the effort it had been for him. As he released her and rolled over, Evie thought about his earlier remarks. It would press hard upon so ordinarily virile a man to succumb to the ravages of age, as all men seemed inevitably to do. Staring at his scarred and tattooed back she felt the urge to slip her arms about him and tell him it mattered not to her but she knew most men did not ordinarily appreciate the sympathies of a woman in this matter, and that Barbossa most certainly would not.

Instead she rose, naked and supine, and fetched his supper from where it had been discarded on the sideboard. He was silent on the bed, lost to his thought, and it occurred to her to say that for all the strain of it, he'd remained hard as rock throughout, then thought better of it. But that was the strange thing, wasn't it? Evie's vast experience of older men had demonstrated age brought an inability to keep sailing at full mast, as it were, and that certainly weren't what troubled Barbossa… still, better to keep her mouth shut and save herself a black eye.

His face was sour when he sat up to receive his food and his mood matched, complaining that the meat was stringy, the vegetables tough and the sauce congealed.

"I didn't cook it!" Evie took a good long swallow of gin and her head buzzed enjoyably. "And it's been sittin' there an hour or more, what do you expect?"

He scowled and grunted at her and she thought she had better make peace so as not to be bickering the rest of the night. "Do you want me to fetch you somethin' fresh then?" she queried gently and that broke his temper.

"Nay wench, I've had me fill. Ye be a good lass." And he cupped her cheek before gesturing for another drink.

She took the leftovers back to the sideboard, picking at it a little and shrugging her shoulders. Though cold, the meat tasted rather tender and juicy to her, but then she didn't make so much a habit of fine dining as her Captain did. She glanced back at the bed as she uncorked a fresh bottle and saw that the villainous monkey had dared to re-emerge, in her absence. The sight of him seemed to cheer Barbossa somewhat more and he enquired of the little wretch:

"So, ye return for more sweets do ye, ye little beggar? 'Tis fortuitous for ye I be somewhat fond of the same flesh that so delights ye! Evie!" he called to her and she raised an eyebrow in response, thoroughly unimpressed by the sight before her of the monkey perched entreatingly at Barbossa's feet and Barbossa himself smiling at the rotten thing – all upon her bed and smart burgundy coverlet! "Fetch me me jacket."

With a roll of her eyes, she obliged and then turned to stoke up the fire as the curious flirtation continued behind her. Barbossa produced more apples and obligingly split them with the monkey who chattered his thanks and cheerfully devoured his share. When Evie took a step to the bed the monkey started and screamed and she threw up her hands and exclaimed "Alright, alright!" and instead fetched a wrap from her wardrobe to cover her nakedness, pulling her dresser chair as close to the bed as the monkey would allow before shrieking. Barbossa laughed to see it and for Evie it was too much.

"Damned if I'm bein' kicked out of me own bed by a bleedin' monkey!" she swore and threw herself heavily onto the covers to which the little rascal burst into a cacophony of squealing protests and leapt upon Barbossa's shoulder.

"Here now!" The Captain smiled and sat upright and the monkey turned his back to Evie and buried his little hairy head into Barbossa's hair, his long thin tail wrapping desperately around Barbossa's neck. He reached up to stroke the trembling creature and chuckled while Evie pouted and reached for her gin bottle, ever present by the bedside.

"Oh if you like 'im so much, you can 'ave 'im!" she declared and Barbossa cocked a brow.

"Who be ye speakin' to?"

She narrowed her eyes at him as he continued to pet the little fellow. "You'd be doin' me a favour!"

"Well, then, how about it, ye wee rascal?" He queried to the monkey who spun around on his shoulder and cocked his parti-coloured head to the Captain. "Would ye like to seek the world beyond the confines of a whore's bedroom and sail the seas upon the shoulder of a mighty Captain?"

The monkey cocked his head in the other direction, his dark eyes round and curious before emitting a high shriek that curdled Evie's blood. Barbossa slid his eyes to the whore and gave her a toothy grin. "I believe we have an accord."

"Well thank the Powers for that!" she snipped and slid closer, not minding the protesting noises the monkey made. "'E's big enough to share!" she snapped at the monkey and slipped an arm about Barbossa's chest. "And if you're takin' up with 'im, your goin' to 'ave to get used to me, I'm afraid!" she finished pertly and felt Barbossa's chest vibrate against her cheek with his merriment.

"Squabbled over by a whore and a monkey!" he declared and lifted his glass to his lips. "I'll drink to that."

"You 'aven't told me 'ow you got Sparrow to give up the Peal, you know!" she accused him sometime later. "'E was in love with that bloody ship – did you find 'im a better one or somethin'?"

They were playing cards and were neck and neck. Evie's skills had improved somewhat considerably since last they had met and she did not hesitate to cheat, either, for she was quite sure he would not hold back now. The monkey sat above them on the bed-head, observing their progress closely.

Barbossa laid out the turn and his smile was sneering. "I procured Jack a better station altogether."

"Meaning?"

He matched her bet and raised it, giving her pause to consider the stakes. "Ol' Jack discovered he was more attached to land than he first though. Far more attached. So we made 'im…" and here Barbossa had to put down his cards, for he was suddenly overcome with mirth. "We made 'im a Governor!"

Evie was perplexed. "'Ow?"

Barbossa wiped his eyes and continued to laugh. "How, what, Missy?"

"'Ow did you make him a Guv'nor… you ain't got that kind of influence." Which made Barbossa laugh all the harder at her naivety – which in turn roused her temper, prompting her to toss down her cards.

"You think it's so bloody funny to laugh at me, I'd like to see your smarts if you'd never been off this fuckin' island but I'll wager I've a wit one or two more than you."

And he grew suddenly sombre and regarded her with grave eyes.

"But Evie, those parts of ye untouched are all the more endearin'." But she scowled at him still and so he fetched up his jacket.

"Here," he said. "I've a gift for ye. " and she brightened at that, for he'd given her nothing since a couple of pearl combs quite some time before.

From deep within a pocket, he withdrew a couple of shining gold pieces. Evie's eyes lit up upon sight of them for she could see at once they were very heavy, very thick, rich gold, and quite a handsome size as well. A slight smile playing upon his lips he dropped them into her outstretched palm and she gasped to feel their weight, wiggling her fingers so that the dim glow of the candlelight might play upon their shining surfaces.

"Cor! These are beauties!" she admired them and he put one hand into her hair and rubbed her neck.

"Cursed Aztec gold." He divulged, his lips pursing in amusement and she glanced up at him with wide eyes.

"So it wasn't a fib!" and flipped the coins over so that they chinked against each other. Engraved o n their backs was a death's head, grinning at her with a cadaver's mirth.

"Eight hundred and eighty two pieces." He murmured and ran a finger around the outline of one carved skull. "A pretty pocket indeed. We been celebratin' all over the Spanish Main and further since."

Well, she hadn't really expected Tortuga to be their first port of call. "'Ow many others you given a piece to then?" she queried sardonically and he laughed, but did not answer.

"But they, of course, are merely the jewels in the throne – the true prize was the Pearl. With her, I'm nigh unstoppable now." The timbre of his voice was tinged in victory.

"Hector." She looked at him firmly. "What 'appened to Sparrow?"

He held her gaze for a moment before sitting upwards and sliding off the bed, a sardonic glint in his eye. "I would not have expected such concern for that rascal from you, Miss Evangeline."

Addressing her in the same manner in which Sparrow had made her ponder if they had spoken of her. But she was not to be put off.

"It's not concern. It's bloody natural curiosity. I know 'e ain't been seen 'round 'ere as long as you 'aven't. You demand I 'elp you get the dirt from 'im for you, vanish with 'im for months on end, return without 'im, but 'oldin' 'is treasure and 'is ship, and you don't expect me to wonder? "

Barbossa's smile was sinister and quiet, one hand caressing the back of her dresser chair as he surveyed her with head tilted slightly to one side.

"But naturally, Missy, you would wonder. " He purred and nudged her chamber pot from out beneath the bed. "And it is with no small amount of pleasure that I deliver to you the no doubt welcome tidin's that Captain Jack Sparrow has permanently retired."

Awareness was beginning to grow on Evie like an itch. "Permanently?"

Barbossa refastened his pants and half-chuckled. "For all his boastin's, Sparrow hailed from Greenland and with the right amount of rum and the right amount of flattery was pleasingly suggestible. I persuaded him, after a few days of toleratin' his inept command and haphazard decisions, to share with me the bearin's of this long-lost Island. Meself and what were left of me crew had been workin' on the others since we'd set sail, settin' in their hearts a displeasure and dissatisfaction with the inexperienced Captain and they were all ready then to seize hold of the ship, which we duly did. They'd heard enough of me particular criticisms of Sparrow and observed for themselves how better my orders and suggestions fared than that of the supposed leader of the ship and with the aid of Bo'sun, Koehler and others, were all too willin' to name me Captain and maroon the young Sparrow on the nearest island." He stretched his long body out besides Evie again, who turned to him frowning.

"Couldn't 'e just 'op on another ship?" and Barbossa's grimace was somewhere between frustration and amusement.

"Not if there be no other livin' soul upon this island, wench." He dryly shared and laughed softly in his throat. The picture was becoming clear to Evie, who sat up straighter and turned to face Barbossa full on.

"So, you dumped 'im on an empty island to meet 'is maker, took off with the ship and fetched the treasure?"

Hearing it said thus spurred Barbossa's laughter on and Evie did not quite know what to say. "What was on the island?"

"Trees. Grass. A hell of a lot of sand!" His laugh grew harder.

Evie thought of the intrepid and dreaming Jack with his baby face and missing teeth, slowly starving a sweltering death beneath a harsh Caribbean sun. She certainly had no love lost on the scallywag but her stomach knotted uncomfortably at the thought and she observed the chortling Barbossa with unease, chewing on one fingernail.

"Why didn't you just shoot 'im?" She asked him and Barbossa recovered himself, stretching his arms high above his head and yawning.

"Because Sparrow were an affront to pirates everywhere!" he snarled. "He was a poor Captain but a poorer pirate. Every opportunity that came our way to increase our fortunes he disregarded, hellbent on that bloody treasure and nothin' else. He roused no respect in the men and a pirate Captain only keeps his station through respect – do ye think I lasted so long by the grace of God? His ship – better even, yes, than my lost Siren – fast and sleek and beautiful – well she were wasted on him and he not deservin' of her. If all pirates that sailed the seas were akin to Jack Sparrow, we'd be a bloody laughin' stock. Asides we were plenty merciful – left him a pistol." He finished his tirade with a disdainful snort and laid a rough kiss upon Evie's shoulder.

It made Evie feel somewhat better to hear that and she drew Barbossa head onto her breast and stroked his cheek, feeling the creases of his roughened skin against her palm and the scratch of his beard against her nipple. The candles were burning low and Evie could tell from the sounds coming from beyond her walls that Dawn was swift approaching. Their card game lay abandoned, spread out upon the coverlet, and as sleep began to settle upon their limbs, the little monkey dared his disdain of Evie to clamber onto Barbossa once more and from there arrange himself in the crook of his arm. Evie tried to sneer at the wretch, but found herself a trifle endeared in spite of her efforts to resist.

"You goin' to give the little blighter a name?" and Barbossa's eyes flew open, bright and watery, surveying the inquisitive little creature who peered up at them with unblinking eyes.

"Aye," he declared hoarsely. "'Tis only fittin' that such a creature be brought above his station by bein' bestowed with an appropriate moniker. " He fell silent to ponder the matter a moment and then a wolfish grin split Barbossa's face as he raised his hand to stroke the monkey's brow.

"Jack"


	11. Chapter 10

The months passed into Evie's twenty-third year and the climate of Tortuga was changing. At first it was subtle, like the far distant scent of cannon-fire on the breeze that sometimes swept into the bay and Evie thought perhaps it were simply that she were getting older though her mirror still reflected back an altogether pleasing countenance. But then when Jasmine, and Giselle, and even little Mary-Beth made an aggrieved observation, Evie knew it to be true: Business was definitely slower on Tortuga.

Pirates who had been as much a part of Tortuga's scenery as its seamy taverns and voluptuous whores suddenly vanished. One night a familiar fellow by the name of Briggs arrived in port and Evie shared a tankard with him in The Lamb & Flag.

"And what of your mates?" She queried, swinging her legs. "Thompson, Belvedere and Grenouille? 'Aven't seen them around in months now."

Briggs swallowed hard around his ale and grimaced. "You 'aven't 'eard? They're all dead – met their makers at the end of a rope, courtesy of the East India Trading Company."

It was the first Evie had heard of the Company, but it was not to be the last. Tortuga was the hub of gossip from all parts of the world and the sailors and pirates kept the whores well up to date with all manner of goings-on. The East India Trading Company desired order upon the seas and it was order they were pursuing to devastating consequence. Those of piratical leaning had especially to fear – the Company's ships were heavily armed and designed for battle and although pirates were ferocious fighters and ruthless defenders, it was more often that the sleek size of their ships were an aid in affording them escape than they triumphed by other means. The trials of the seas were steadily multiplying for pirates.

But those pirates who sailed the seas still and did not retire either by free design or by force fought back with all the greater ferociousness, pillaging so freely that the waters ran red around brutalised ships for miles and many ports went without luxuries from Europe for months upon end. The Company retaliated with equal brutality and that year many a pair of boots that dangled along the Spanish Main were those of a pirate's.

All of this meant little to Evie and the other residents of Tortuga – Tortuga was still a free port and governed by none – except for what it meant to their collective income. Things weren't so very bad just yet – it's just that there was space to move your elbows about in the taverns now and time to catch your breath between biters – and Evie rather thought the whole thing would blow over and The Company would quit its zealousness once it had made its point and realised that piracy were as much a part of the seas as the waves, the fish and the tales of Davy Jones.

Barbossa and his new crew came and went with increasing unpredictability, their visits to Tortuga sporadic and brief. He seemed wearier to Evie each time and she secretly worried for him but daren't let it show for he was vexed enough as it was.

The Captain who was so quick to laugh uproariously, to drink the taverns dry, to fuck her until her head spun – seemed to grow ever surlier and more disenchanted by that which had so pleased him before. Even the most sumptuous meals that Tortuga could offer he would push away half-finished, a disappointed grimace contorting his mouth. No longer would he dance with her to the grinding pulse of the accordion or the fiddle's whine, no more would he celebrate successful hauls with his men, but usher her hastily and grimly to her room where he would scull endless bottles of liquor and fuck her to increasingly breathless and strained climaxes.

She did her best, expending all her skills in enviable efforts and he left her more and more gold each time, spent more and more gold on food and wine and other vices – cocoa leaf, opium, snuff – but the more he spent, the more dissatisfied he seemed.

The afternoon thrummed with the endless beat of rain and Evie huddled under blankets and groaned in protest as sleep slowly abandoned her. A sharp pain gripped her skull like a gull's claw, intensifying the more awake she became until finally she could bear it no more and flung out an arm, fumbling by the bed for the gin bottle. It took several big swigs before it took effect and the headache dulled to a dim throb. Still, it would take a bottle before it vanished altogether. It would take two just to get her through the night. Evie groaned again and rolled over onto her back. It was almost time to be getting up and getting ready for the night's work and she resisted the knowledge, not wanting it to be true. Her bed was warm and terribly comfortable – she'd even changed the linen before retiring that morning and the thought of getting them soiled again was a tiresome one. She forced her eyes open and stared up at the canopy, and her reflection in the mirror that hung there. Distorted though it was, she could see well enough to know she looked weary. She puffed and listened to the rain, feeling it and the gin working to lull her back to rest.

Evie had worked every night non-stop for a good six weeks now and knew she was well overdue for a night off. Between the rain and her headache, it seemed as good a night as any now. She could wash her hair, go through her wardrobe and sort out her dresses, even do some mending if she felt like it.

The decision made, all tension flew from her body and with one last big gulp of gin she settled back against the pillows and gave herself up to rest.

She was not sure how much time had elapsed when she was roused from her slumber, but it was clearly evening now for beyond the thin walls came the cheers and laughter of Tortuga. For a moment, blearily rubbing at her eyes, she was unsure what had awakened her until she came slowly to realise that rising above the gun shots and cheerful music beyond there was a hammering at her door that became increasingly violent.

Thinking it must be Giselle, or some other whore, Evie stumbled from bed, tripping over her shoes as she did, head swimming drunkenly from a sleep disturbed before it was properly finished. But, by the time she reached the door, pressing herself up against it with a beating heart, the knocking had grown so that the wood near splintered and with a lurch of the stomach she knew it must be bullies, come to assault and rob her. What to do now?

"Evie!" A voice barked from the other side of the door. "Open this god-forsaken door, wench, or I'll kick it apart and ye as well!"

Barbossa! Hastily, she fumbled with the lock but before she could pull the door, it flew open into the room, knocking her backwards and stubbing her toes.

She yelped as Barbossa strode into the room, dampened with the rain from outside, his attitude fierce, Jack the Monkey crouched upon his shoulder. She could not imagine what she had done to vex him so but she felt there might be a hiding for her at the end of it and the thought struck her numb with fear. She edged backwards as he advanced upon her, until she hit the corner of her dresser and her hands fumbled to get purchase, steadying herself against the solid wood as she faced his terrible scowl. He was in the same clothes – same grey jacket, same bright vest, same brown pants – that she had last seen him in, and they were already becoming weather-worn, a sharp contrast to the brilliant figure he had cut in the past. There was a desperate tinge to the grimace he bore, a weariness as though he had not slept for many nights. She barely recognised him, and that frightened her more than anything.

He took stock of her with hard, cold eyes as she stood trembling in her old nightdress, his face settling into a dangerous calm.

"Where are the medallions, Evangeline?" His voice was measured, though raspy as a blade against flint.

She was confused; medallions? "Wh-what d'you mean?" She dared to question. "What medallions?"

He took a step forward, his brow splitting with rage and she started backwards, crossing her hands across her breast.

"Don't be daft, whore." He warned her. "I am not much inclined to patience. The medallions I gave ye some months ago. With a death's mask upon them."

Realisation dawned on her as she suddenly recalled his gift of the two pieces of Aztec gold, and she turned and fell to her knees, fumbling beneath the dresser for the hidden compartment there. "'Ang on, I 'id them away. Lord, you frightened me, I was lost in sleep when you came a'rattlin' you know, no need to make such a fuss, all just a matter of a minute or two." She realised she was babbling, but could scarcely stop. And what did he want them back for, was he hard up or something? Even when he had been that brief time, he'd refused her charity. Her fingers grasped the little enamel music box he'd given her two years ago, or was it three now? Withdrawing it she turned back to him and he loomed over her, face drawn tight and anxious, as she slipped a fingernail beneath the lid and popped it open.

The metallic notes of a tinkling melody filled the tiny room and he grasped a candle from the dresser and lit it with a shaking hand, holding it high above them.

The lick of orange light leapt over the medallions, their gold surfaces burnishing in the low gleam and Barbossa visibly relaxed, his shoulders releasing with a silent breath. One ringed hand reached out to caress the coins, tentatively as though he feared they might vanish in the flare of the candle's light, and then he scooped them up and pocketed them, dropping his hand back to rest upon Evie's head for a moment, fingertips scooping in her hair.

"I knew I could trust ye." He murmured and turned away from her, limping towards the door. At first she thought he was going to leave, as soon as he had arrived, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he simply shut and locked the door. Slowly she got to her feet as he sighed and pulled his hat from his head, tossing it to the chair. Cautiously she went to him and helped him from his jacket, laying it down beside his hat and he cupped her cheek in thanks and she felt some of the old Barbossa there and was glad.

"What's this all about then?" She queried him, some of her usual spirit creeping back into her voice now that it seemed the danger had passed. "Bargin' in 'ere and kickin' up such a fuss, rousin' me from me beauty sleep, eh?"

She was glad to see him chuckle and gladder still that his arms went about her and he gazed upon her with the old fondness and she felt his hardness pressing into the space between her hip and her groin.

"Never ye trouble ye little self about it, Missy." And he laid a kiss upon her lips. "There be matters of greater concern at hand for ye now." He pushed against her again and a sudden rush of gladness filled her heart; joy to have him with her again so that her fear of only moments before was entirely forgotten.

They kissed as garments were pulled off and discarded and embraced, naked flesh sliding, hands stroking. He cupped her breast and bent to it, teeth tugging at it teasingly and she grasped his shoulders and giggled. He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed where they stretched out and embraced again and Evie lost herself to the kiss, to the feel of his tongue against hers and the warmth it filled her with.

After several luxurious moments she broke the kiss and slid down his body to take him in her mouth. He swelled harder against her administrations and she noted it with satisfaction, working earnestly to arouse him, swirling her tongue around his engorged head. She thought that she was doing well, his hands curling in her hair, until from above came the hoarse command: "Harder!"

She obeyed, working on him as hard as she felt able, and then again, barking this time: "Harder, whore!" She tried, her mouth growing numb with the effort, and then he sat up, grasping her hard and near-shouted: "Harder!" forcing her head up and down in such a way that he choked her and she braced her hands against his thighs to stop her face from being mashed into his pelvis.

She could not satisfy him in this way, however, and he flung her from him so that she sprawled upon her back, dazed and dry-mouthed, and then mounted her.

She had grown moist from their earlier embraces and at first found his ferocious thrusting to be pleasurable. The woman in her relished such open lust, felt some primal force within herself rise to meet his bestial efforts as he grasped hold of her buttocks and drove hard into her, his forehead glistening with perspiration. She drove her fingers into his back and lifted her hips to grind against his and he continued to pound her as though it might be the very last time he would do so. She did not think he would last long at this pace.

But she was wrong. He slowed his pace for a while, breathing hard, and sat back. Now he pushed into her languidly, softly, lowering one hand to her pleasure spot to manipulate her there and she felt her juices begin to flow once more. His other hand toyed with her nipples, increasing her enjoyment and she moaned and let him behold how much pleasure she was taking in his administrations. Stealing a glance at him from beneath her lashes, she saw that his countenance was still and sombre, not lifted with the usual smug smile he bore when observing her lust. When he lowered his head to let his lips play upon her breast, the combined sensations of him deep inside her, his hand on her clitoris, his teeth and tongue teasing her nipples, all crescendoed quickly, the sensations tumbling over each other, into an intense and satisfying climax.

He did not chuckle, or quip or even pause to kiss her, but began again to thrust hard, her newly lubricated depths clenching around him still. Faster and faster the pace built until she began to gasp – oh, he was going too hard now, far too hard! True enough, she liked it a bit rougher on occasion and true enough, he'd been a bit rougher than even that on other occasions, but this was going far beyond that. Clenching her teeth she screwed her eyes shut and grasped hold of his shoulders. Far too much, but she could hold out until he'd finished – he couldn't be long now. Just until he'd finished. He slammed down with a savage pulse and she could not halt the little yelp that burst from her lips. Now it was truly beginning to pain her and for the first time over these past years, she wished he would hurry up and finish. But Barbossa showed no signs of slowing; indeed she thought he even picked up the pace a little and now her cunny was beginning to burn and her back to ache from where it was being driven into the coverlet. She pushed against his shoulders with her small hands, urging him to stop.

"I need a breather, darlin'," she managed to gasp. "I can't take no more of this right now!"

But he did not heed her, only continued his business, and she pressed against him harder, as hard as she could though little good it did her – he did not budge an inch and she could feel the strength in him far exceeded hers. "Please, Hector, just five minutes!" She gasped and then slapped at his arms and shoulders in sudden panic, her slim brown fingers scrabbling over his faded tattoos. She was not prepared for him to suddenly grasp hold of her wrists and pin them hard by her sides, near burying them in the mattress. His grip pinched, his weight bore down on her crushingly and although she strained against him, the expenditure was futile: he was immoveable and still, still he continued to drive into her.

"Yer a whore, aren't ye" he hissed, his eyes shining and fierce. "How many times a night are ye used?"

"Not like this!" she cried and heaved upwards against him, her whole body covered in a slick sweat from her efforts to escape. Oh, how it hurt!

Not being able to bear looking at him, she twisted her head to the side and gazed outwards, to where the embroidered burgundy coverlet stretched, upwards to the heaping of tatty, colourful pillows. On them perched the monkey, staring at them with a curiously blank expression and wretched, she squeezed her eyes shut and felt the harsh curl of the embroidery scratch against her cheek with every painful thrust Barbossa gave her.

"Shut up!" Barbossa spat and slowly, above the creakings of the bed and the grunts he emitted she became aware that she was yelping, an involuntary noise that sprang from her every time he drove himself forward and now that she heard it, the noises became louder, to the Captain's vexation.

"Shut up!" He hissed and pulled out of her. But the relief was only momentary for he rolled her onto her stomach and entered her hard again, pushing her face down into the pillows so that her cries were smothered. The terror she felt now as she tried to breathe was unlike any she had known before. She tried to shout that she could not catch her breath, but the words could not be formed against the chocking fabric. She flailed her arms about desperately, trying to grasp him, trying to push herself up, but he only pushed her down harder and continued to fuck her mercilessly. Again and again she tried to draw in a deep breath but all she breathed in was the scent of worn linen and straw and the dour taste of cotton. Oh Lord, how could this be happening, how could he not realise that if he did not release her very soon, she would _die¸_ suffocate just like her poor dear Mum, all those years ago. Of all the hands she thought she might die at, Hector Barbossa's had not been amongst them. Why oh why would he do such a thing to her –

Evie's mind was tearing itself upon that last point again and again as she felt herself grow so heavy she could no longer struggle, as though she were underwater and pushing against the tide. Her head grew giddy, swam and spun and more alarmingly still, she began to find she did not care overmuch when through the fog and the darkness, she heard a great roar from Barbossa. A wretched cry that was somewhere between a scream and a groan, and the pressure on the back of her head was suddenly lifted and she threw back her neck and sucked in a great gasp of air before collapsing back on the bed, a loud buzzing in her ears.

Behind her he was still and silent. The room came back to her slowly; the press of the fabric beneath her, the cool of the pillow against her cheek, the dim glow of the candlelight, his fingertips yet pressed into her buttocks, but still she felt curiously numb. She could somehow not bring herself to move, to rouse herself, but lay there, blinking against the half-light, feeling spittle gather in the corner of her mouth before pooling over her lips and dribbling onto the pillow.

Barbossa shifted and his hands left her body. She realised suddenly he was still inside her – she had become strangely accustomed to the sensation – and there was a final screech of pain as he pulled slowly out, leaving her burning. She could not see him, only hear him as he stood, crossed the room slowly and began to dress. He passed into her line of vision only once, to gather up his sash from where it had been discarded and she saw that he wiped himself off with it and then tossed it back down.

There was the clink of his sword as he refastened it about his waist, the pitter-patter of Jack the Monkey scrabbling across the room to some unseen gesture and then silence again. She did not move, did not turn her head to find him, found that indeed, she could not. He stood in the semi-darkness for a long moment; perhaps debating whether to speak, perhaps waiting for her to. He would have to wait. Even if she could form words, none sprang to mind. Her nether-regions throbbed and her head ached. All she could wonder, somewhat hilariously, was whether or not, after all that, he'd come.

Finally, she heard him turn on his heels, the click and creak of the lock and then the door clap shut. She shifted then, feeling a hot stickiness between her thighs, a flare behind her eyeballs and a wetness that filmed her gaze so that she felt obliged to let drop her eyelids .

When she'd finally felt able to move, a searing pain ripped through her loins so that she'd doubled over against the pillows. When it passed, she'd rolled gingerly onto her back and beheld with no small amount of horror that her thighs and stomach were mottled with blood and that blood was splotched over the coverlet. Ruined, she thought dumbly, I'll have to spend a dozen mornings at the docks to find another. She had not been aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks, only the groan of protest from her back as she'd slid to the edge of the bed, placing her toes onto the rug and pulling herself up. The ache in her groin had settled to a low hum but she'd known she would not be working the next few nights – he'd done her some damage and there was no doubt of it.

She'd stoked up the fire and put on the pot of water to boil, swigging from a bottle of gin to numb the pain. It was near three-quarters empty before her head began to buzz and she could muster just enough energy to curse the name of Hector Barbossa as the pot began to sizzle and hiss.

That had been four nights ago now and Evie sat in her room, rubbing thick scented cream into her cheeks, her eyes red ringed from weeping, gin bottle at her elbow. She could not stop the tears, it seemed, though she cursed them with every foul word she knew, but still they kept rolling, often preceded with a flash of memory of her Captain in kinder days when he'd been sensitive to the workings of the female body. She was still healing, a dozen finger-shaped bruises scattered upon her body, her sex still red and puffy, her insides raw, and she knew not how long it would be before she felt safe enough to go walking again. To save coin, she'd not been eating, only consuming the stores of her cocoa leaf and polishing off the gin as fast as Giselle could deliver it to her, and she knew that she appeared thin and haggard as a result. If this went on much longer, she would have to delve into her stash – really, there was plenty of it! But Evie was terrified of finding herself penniless, loathe to touch the accumulated coin in the fear it would vanish in a twinkling.

But it was more than her injuries that kept her from going about. Pain did not knaw at her body as fiercely as it tore apart her heart. The only time she had felt emotion quite so intense was at her mother's deathbed, and this was an altogether different sort. It was this pain that set the tears falling so readily, this pain that made the thought of stepping beyond her doors quite unbearable, though her chamber pot was reeking. This pain that had her hugging her pillow against her breast and sobbing in an agony of loss. Evie was simply heartbroken and did not know the words to express it, even if she could admit it to herself.

Giselle entered, high cheeks splotched with red, two bottles of gin tucked beneath her arm.

"'Ow are you tonight, love?" she queried and dropped a kiss on Evie's scented cheek before placing the bottles across the room on the sideboard. Her peach-coloured dress was unfortunately clashing with her pallor, an artificial whiteness that did not quite mask the dark circles beneath her eyes, and her blonde hair was escaping from where it was secured about her head. Evie could see that Giselle had been hard at work and envy mingled curiously with relief. Giselle poured herself a glass of gin then passed the bottle to Evie who accepted it gratefully and answered her friend's query with a shrug.

"Could be a lot worse."

"You goin' about tonight then?"

Evie jerked her head, her voice hoarse. "Nah. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

Giselle clucked and raised thin eyebrows. "You got to sooner or later, ducks. Can't sit about feelin' sorry for yourself forever."

Evie sighed and rose from her dresser, idling over to the bed. "Aye. I know. And what if I were to see him about?"

Giselle swallowed her gin in one gulp and scoffed. "You won't be havin' to worry about that. They haul anchor with the Dawn and like as not won't be back for a few months."  
Evie was run through with a cold shudder, her body arrested suddenly by an icy grip. He left then, at dawn, and though she tried to tell herself fiercely it was good, there was the ache of emptiness in her breast.

And then, much to Giselle's astonishment, she was hastily shrugging out of her shift and fumbling for her stays and petticoats, stumbling over the rug as she pulled them on. Giselle tittered a little and took another drink.

"Well, you recovered mighty quick at that bit of news, love. There's not much left to the night though, you know!"

"I know." Evie's response was grim as she wiggled quickly into the nearest dress her searching hand had found when thrust into her wardrobe. Red sateen. She did not notice it was the same dress she had been wearing the first night they had met. Pausing then only to run a brush hastily through her hair, she jammed her feet into a pair of shoes and flew from the room, leaving Giselle standing by the sideboard, a startled expression on her face, an "Oy!" forming on her lips.

Evie had hurtled down the rickety staircase of the Maison Rouge and out into the streets beyond and had not stopped until the reached the docks of Tortuga, scanning them in the dim dark blue of morning, her breath misting on the air. Yes! Yes, he was there, his crew piling into long boats, he with a hand upon his hips and Jack the Monkey chattering upon his shoulder, directing them as they loaded the boats with provisions for the journey ahead.

Gathering up her skirts she ran towards them, and he caught the flashing of her movement and turned to her, not able to mask in time the look of startlement that darted over his features.

By the time she reached the dock, panting and with an ache that flared up in her groin from the effort, he had fixed his face into a closed and sombre mask, watching her with hard eyes as she slowed her pace, struggling not to reveal her pain.

Behind him his men paused to watch her approach, exchanging glances amongst each other and catching their sudden stillness, Barbossa turned to the Bo'sun and jerked his head roughly to which the Bo'sun barked commands that they should return to the ship with haste. And hastily they resumed loading the longboats, took up the oars and began rowing. The Bo'sun himself leapt into one lone boat, and awaited his Captain silently.

Barbossa and Evie stared at each other a long moment in the gloaming of that shivering Dawn, her eyebrows knotted together, his lips pulled downwards at their corners. His attitude was nonchalant, legs apart, one arm dangled by his side, another at his belt. The monkey, who had lately acquired garb of his own, screeched excitedly to recognise her but there was barely a flicker across Barbossa's countenance and she crossed her arms over her breast and managed a wry smile.

"You wasn't even goin' to say goodbye then?" She tried to make the words harsh, but they fell flat. A muscle moved in his cheek but he said nothing. She took another step toward him and a hot flash of pain flared up in her loins. She hesitated only a moment, but he caught it, and the hand she pressed against her belly to quiet the fire.

"I apologise for the disservice I done ye." His voice was hoarse; it was also guarded and she grew angry.

"Disservice?" She spat, advancing upon him. "Disservice? You bloody well tore me apart! I 'aven't been able to work! I don't know when I will be! Do you know what that means in a place like this? Do you have any fuckin' idea?"

His expression did not change, but he turned his head as though he did not care to listen and she grasped at his arm and jerked at him, ignoring the shriek of protest from the monkey, ignoring the clench of his jaw.

"You listen to me, you pig-headed bastard. I always done right by you, done the very bloody best I can and you've got no right to disregard that. You can shout at me if I'm lazy, backhand me if I give cheek, even give me a 'idin' if you felt it was warranted, but don't you ever fuckin' interfere with my means of earnin' my livin', do you 'ear me? I won't be a fuckin' beggar and I won't bloody well die on the streets and you respect that, same way I respect you'll always set sail again and got no obligations to me. Do you 'ear me?!"

He jerked his head sharply back to her, his eyes blazing with some unspoken emotion. They were all that betrayed him in his stony face and she felt her own well with tears.

"And apart from all that," she did not mind the way her voice shook, that he could starkly see how greatly he had affected her. "I've always tried to make you 'appy, as 'appy as you've made me. And I don't know why you had to go and fuck all that up and make me so bleedin' miserable." She did not know how else to express her heartbreak to him, but even still her words caused a flicker in his eye and he shifted his gaze above her head and stared back at where Tortuga was slowly quieting down for the daylight's sleep. She could no longer hold back the sobs that wracked her body and abandoned herself to them, a whore with tousled hair and shabby dress weeping for a broken heart on a stinking dock in the pirate port of Tortuga. And before her, the cause of her misery, the tall and fearsome pirate Captain whose fortune had of late been visited with grevious luck. Evie knew nothing of that, all she knew was that the man who has so delighted her the past four and a half years had vanished, and a stranger stared back at her from his eyes. A stranger who swallowed his remorse at her distress and fumbled now in his pockets, withdrawing a large animal skin pouch, heavy with coin.

Taking up her slim brown hand in his calloused one, he pressed the pouch into it and squeezed her hand between both of his own, speaking softly in the still cool of dawn.

"To recompense ye for yer losses."

Blinking through her tears she looked down at the pouch, its brown leather patched and worn, its weight heavy in her hands and knew its sum far exceeded what she had lost. Her heart thudded dully in her breast. It was not truly what she wanted, and her stricken gaze turned upwards to him spoke it in volumes. Barbossa shook his head slowly, a half-smile twisting his lips.

"Now, now wench," he rasped. "Ye can't be askin' more of me than that."

She flung herself upon him, throwing her arms about his waist and burying her face into his chest, her cries shaking her shoulders, her tears wetting his vest. He did not move, did not push her away, but stood still as stone and let her weep against him. She pushed her face into the folds of his linen shirt, to where she could feel the rough of his skin and the spring of his hair and it was thus, breathing in great gasps, that she became strangely aware that he had no scent; nothing, not sweat or brine or even tobacco could she catch upon his person, and a sudden jolt of terror struck her.

"What's 'appened to you?" she entreated in horror. "Oh Lord, what's 'appened?"

A great shudder shook his body and she felt his hands moving in her hair, tangling through it as he lowered his head to rest his cheek upon her forehead.

"Evie, Evie." A murmur so low she had to strain to hear it. "Ye sucked me dry, do ye not know? Drained me of the very last scrap of feelin' I had left. I'd say we were square, now."

She pulled backwards so that she might look up at him, her hands lifted to cup his face and he did not pull his gaze from hers, instead staring deep into her eyes with a hollow and lost sorrow she could not bear.

"What are you talkin' about?" she pleaded. "Aren't I your very own Evie? Speak plain with me, please."  
And he sighed and straightened so that her hands must fall instead to his lapels, which she gripped and tugged on, not daring to let go in case he should turn on his heel and leave her there with her pain. He raised a hand to her neck, pushing back the curls of her hair, discovering there the marks of his own fingers and stroking them so that they ached a little and Evie winced.

"Sparrow's curse," he said, and he said it without rancour, sounding merely weary. "as it turns out, was real."

He finished there and she could see, from the bitter glint in his eye, that is all he would say on it. She gripped hard on his jacket and tried to pull him towards her, pushing herself against the length of his body, already feeling the agony of his absence.

"Please," she whispered with shining eyes as the sun broke over the horizon and danced brightly on the waves that lapped about the dock they stood upon. "Please, come back to me."

She did not know if he realised her meaning, but he smiled, a gentle look, and lifted his hand up higher to stroke her cheek. His other arm went about her waist, pulling her tight against him and he gazed into her eyes for a long, heavy moment, before lowering his lips to hers.

The kiss was so sweet it near broke her heart again and she surrendered to it with all the abandon of one who knows it is the last time they would know such sensation. Her arms went about his neck and she parted her lips so that his tongue might slide against hers and a warm thrill ran through her at the scratch of his beard against her chin and the press of his nose against her cheek. She did not know how much time elapsed that she was entwined in that kiss, only that as he broke it a low moan crept from her throat at the suddenness of loss she experienced.

His hand cupped her cheek a moment still, his eyes, bright blue in the growing light, fixed quietly upon hers. Then he turned and was gone, striding down the dock and leaping down into the long boat where the Bo'sun waited, turning his back to her to stand at the helm, facing The Black Pearl where she hulked silently in the waters, awaiting the return of her Captain.

She watched as they rowed their way to the ship, as the water turned a luminescent green with the rising of the sun and the gulls began to squawk and flap about in the sand at the spoils from the night before.

She watched as the sails were let out, and the anchor was lifted and the great ship began to move, slowly at first then picking up rapidly, moving with surety from the bay and into the great, wide ocean beyond.

She watched until the ship had vanished altogether from view, until all that she could see was the beating, frothing waves the Pearl left in her wake and the curved dark walls of the rocky bay that so tightly enclosed the port of Tortuga.

Then she turned and went home.


	12. Chapter 11

Evie was drunk. It was the first time she'd been drunk in a good few months. She drank gin in such quantities now that she scarcely remembered how it felt to be without it. Her drunkenness was entirely the result of over much rum, and she was enjoying herself a great deal.

She and Giselle whirled about upon the sand in their underpinnings, shrieking with laughter. It had been a dead night, the sort that creeps forward, minute by achingly dull minute, like a slow, cavernous yawn to which there never seems an end, just a constant pungent darkness. So she and Giselle had called it quits, taken a few bottles down to the seaside, and had their own private party.

Few merchant vessels dared stop in at Tortuga now for fear of being caught doing dishonest business by the East India Trading Company. What pirate ships that dropped anchor still were very much willing to spend their coin on the usual pleasures, but as Giselle wearily observed, there seemed to be less and less of them each week. Both of them frequently muttered darkly to each other that it was high time the Company passed through its little show-off to the King fancyin's and left them all alone – either that or direct their ships and hard-working sailors to drop anchor in the harbour of Tortuga!

But the East India Trading Company was forgotten now as they made merry in the damp sand under a brilliant full moon. Grasping hands they whirled about singing childhood nursery rhymes that Giselle, who had arrived on Tortuga aged sixteen, remembered from a childhood on the dirty cobbled streets of London whilst her mother took in sewing work and her father shined boots.

"Ah-TISH-oo, Ah-TISH-oo, all fall DOWN!" They collapsed in a giggling heap on the sand and rolled about in it, shrieking still further to feel the grainy particles sift their way into the crevices of their bosoms and beneath their stays. The more they wiggled, the further the sand infiltrated until finally their bellies ached so much they could do nothing further but be prostrate beneath the stars, clutching hands, until their laughter subsided. Evie's eyes stung from the kohl that had run into them from her tears and her brain spun and swam within her skull, tipping the night sky first one way and then the next.

"Giselle?" and her friend murmured in acknowledgement. "You ever wonder what it would be like, to be some fella's wife, like? Lady of a 'ouse with nowt to do but take care of one bloke?"

Giselle's head lolled in Evie's direction and with a great effort she rolled over onto her belly and pushed herself up onto one elbow.

"You ain't thinkin' of that bugger Barbossa again, are you? Evie!"

Evie rolled away, her head dropping heavily to the sand, covering her face with both hands. "Oh shut it!" she moaned as Giselle launched into a lisping scold.

"Now you listen to me, Evie, I am bloody sick of your mopin'. Even if 'e comes back, there ain't nothin' 'e got for you but a few coins and a 'ard cock and don't you forget it, because 'e sure as 'ell 'asn't!" She leaned over her pal and grasped her arm, shaking Evie vigorously so that the younger girl grimaced and brought her knees up to her chest. "'Ow many years 'e's been about, mm? You think 'e's gonna lose 'is 'ead over a tu'penny, ha'penny docks whore, pretty though you might be?" Evie was silent, her face pressed into the sand and her shoulders hunched up to her ears and Giselle wrapped her arm tight across her bosom in a hug. "Think about it. 'E's fucked me, 'e's fucked Jasmine, e's fucked Katie, Scarlet, Bessie, Imogen, Cheryl, Maude, Tabitha –for fuck's sake, 'e fucked your mother when you was still just a babe!"

Evie jerked her head up and opened her mouth to respond, sand showering from the fronds of her hair. But the sudden movement gave her belly a lurch and she barely managed to propel herself to the waters edge in time before she was vomiting up the contents of the evening's excess whilst behind her, Giselle shook her head and dusted off her skirts.

"Forget that blighter and forget bein' a wife – imagine, you, cleanin', cookin' and 'ostin' tea – you'd only be useful for bed makin'. Stick to what you're good at, for God's sakes!"

The humidity that week clung to Evie's dresses and gathered in the pit of her arms and the crease of her thighs. The fine threads of her hair sprung wildly from her head and if she brushed it or wet it down it only grew wilder, as though lashed into a frenzy, choking on the suffocating air as the streets of Tortuga readied themselves in a swelling, groaning mass for the wet season. Evie did not drink any more rum and thought she might very well not ever again, although the gin quieted the pounding in her head as reliably as ever. She had a mind not to speak to Giselle and then realised that was sheer silliness and the two palled about as always. Business picked up a bit and the publicans, whores and traders of Tortuga found their dealings with each other to be far pleasanter, for their moods were all much improved, despite the heat.

One sultry evening, Evie did not bother with corsetry, or indeed even a dress, but went about in a lavender chemise, with dark purple stockings and cerise bloomers. She wished she need not bother even with the stockings, but that seemed overmuch even for Tortuga by moonlight, and they did show off the legs a bit better than bare ones. One publican was selling white wine that had been brought up from a storeroom dug deep into the earth, delivered into eager, sticky hands fresh from barrels of water and Evie gratefully bought a couple and found a swig or two to be sweet relief from the clogging air. So about the streets she went, cool wet bottles of wine tucked under her arm, hair hanging limp upon her forehead, no matter how much she had tried to enliven it before leaving her room. Tortuga seemed almost its normal self this evening, with people pouring out of the taverns – like in the old days, when there had been simply too many bodies for the walls to contain and they had spilled out, like beans from a tipped jar. Evie felt herself grow quite cheery – for perhaps things would be back to as they were – until she squinted closer at one or two and realised they were only half full within – and that it was the heat that had driven people to stand out on the streets. To the outsider, Tortuga seemed a bustling place, overbrim with business folks of sinister bent and, therefore, great opportunity – only one who had seen Tortuga three years earlier would recognise the difference and how vast it was.

Thinking of it sent Evie spiralling into ill temper and she swigged from her wine and muttered curses at the hypocrisy that drove swells to penalise the underdog. A mangy dog went hurtling past her ankles, fish head clutched between its yellowed teeth and she tittered and rounded the corner after it, finding herself face to face with Jack Sparrow.

She choked and started, dropping the bottle she clutched which shattered around her feet. Wine went hissing over the cobblestones, streaming through the gritty crevices to bubble around Sparrow's brown boots.

The two squinted at each other in the hazy light, and Evie's heart beat hard and fast within her breast.

"Well, well." Jack said, his arms crooked at the elbow, fingers curling. "Miss Evangeline. Still plyin' your trade in this disreputable place then, eh? I thought for sure by now one as ambitious as you would've set sail for finer shores and be in service to a King." He paused, rolling his eyes downwards, then back to her. "Or at least his butler."

Evie sneered at him, recovering from her fright quickly. "And I 'eard you was dead, Jack Sparrow."

"Ah!" He widened his eyes at that and flashed her a toothy smile so that she could see his missing teeth had been filled in with gold ones. "Reports of that nature were somewhat exaggerated, as it were." He took a step towards her, eyes shining sardonically. "Not that your villainous lover didn't do his damndest."

She blanched at mention of Barbossa and Sparrow caught it, a sneering smile tugging his lip upwards. "And how is the mighty Captain?"

Evie shrugged, careful to mask any pain that might glimmer through in her next words. "Wouldn't know. 'Aven't seen 'im for a couple of years."

Sparrow feigned shock and cocked his head sidewards. "Got bored of you, did he? Don't take it personal, love. He grew quickly tired of those who most helped him. As it happens." His voice was deadpan, his eyes suddenly dark as he stared at her and she realised it was not Sparrow, not as she'd known him. His smile was sharper and his eye was hard as flint. Was he wiser now, or simpler a more sinister version of the intrepid pirate lad who'd thieved her fee back from her and spoke of vanished treasure? Whatever it was, he looked mean now and he had her cornered in an empty alleyway. But it wasn't the first time she'd found herself in such a position and she bridled and advanced on him with gritted teeth. "I didn't 'ave owt to do with what 'appened to you, Sparrow. And 'is not bein' about 'as more to do with you and your tricky ways doomin' 'im to a wretched fate. So give me no lip about it!"

Sparrow clucked and threw his hands up. "What? Takin' charge of my ship? Plunderin' and lootin' freely under her sails and having his name on the lips of every sailor from here to England? A right rum fate that! Evie…" he stepped forward and grasped hold of her suddenly, leaning in close so that she could feel his breath upon her eyelashes. He was no longer beardless, a small goatee roughened his jaw, seeming to cast a permanent shadow on his face. "…I know a sweet thing like you would be ignorant to Barbossa's schemes… because you would not be ignorant of those more sour sisters what have fallen before you in dark alleys. " And he smiled, sharklike, bringing to mind Barbossa in his more cunning moments. Evie glared at him, refusing to be bowed and wrenched her arms free of his grip.

"Swimmin' your way about now the Pearl's gone might've roughened you up, Jack Sparrow, but I knows you ain't got devil enough in you to raise a 'and to me. And it's 'appened enough that talk of it don't do much to curdle my blood!"

Jack laughed, a harsh sound that was singularly devoid of mirth. "Aye, Miss Evangeline. Seems I fall short to your traitorous Captain in more ways than one, as my pal Belinda could attest. He was late in Barbados, did you hear?" Jack tipped his head to Evie and cocked a brow and Evie struggled hard to let nothing more than a disdainful jut of the chin betray her curiosity. "Oh aye, he was. Tell me, Miss Evie, did he used to knock your jaw out of place if you failed to satisfy him? Or was Belinda just - lucky?"

Evie had nothing with which to reply. It was the first news she'd had of Barbossa in almost two whole years and a tumult of emotions was pouring through her, all gathering together in a lump that obstructed her throat. He was alive – he had not been so far from Tortuga – he'd been with another woman – he'd beaten her. A hot and prickling sensation gathered behind her eyes and to mask it she popped the cork from the bottle that had not met its end on the stones and took a hefty swig. Jack kept his eyes fixed upon her, dark and silent and she glared at him as she wiped her mouth before proffering the bottle to him. He took it with a gesture of acknowledgement and had a gulp, keeping his head bent backwards to the sky afterwards though he handed the bottle back to her.

"Though one would think I'd learned from the last time accepting drinks from a whore is not wise on Tortuga."

Evie snatched the bottle back and Jack smiled, gold teeth glinting in the moonlight. "She worked hard, she did. But all to no avail. But then… he is gettin' on in years." He looked back down to Evie whose eyes had taken on a murderous sheen. "And what of you, Evie? You were always a hard worker, weren't you? But word's got about business ain't what it used to be here in old Tortuga." Jack sidled forward, lifting an arm to rest on the stucco wall beside where Evie leant. His other hand went playing about his belt. "As it happens, I'm feelin' inclined to charity this evenin'." His smile appeared lecherous at first glance, upon second it was merely sinister. From lowered lids he appraised Evie's scantily-clad form and produced a couple of gold coins, waving them beneath her nose "For the usual favours of course." He added, practically as an after thought and Evie found herself frozen there in the dank and stinking little alleyway, all of it a wasted, wretched mess of grey and black but for those two brilliant yellow discs, one catching a pale arc of moonlight as though winking at her. She lifted her eyes to Sparrow's and he held her gaze calmly.

Evie swallowed the urge to scream and pounce upon him, scratching his eyes out and dashing them onto the cobblestones so that she might crush them beneath her heel. She spat on his boot instead. The frothy white of it was joined by first one drop, then two, of rain. Evie felt more, hot and hard, falling slow upon her shoulders and head but stood her ground, her teeth bared at the pirate wretch.

Sparrow shrugged, his face's expression altering to one of resigned nonchalance, but not before Evie caught a glint of hatred in his eye fierce enough to match her own.

"So there is such a thing as the loyalty of a whore!" Jack wiped his boot off against a trouser leg and re-pocketed his gold. "I'm not entirely sure whether I should admire you or pity you, Miss Evangeline, but the very best of luck to you all the same." Pushing past the younger woman, he placed his peaked Captain's hat down hard upon his forehead where the rain drops splattered, staining the fabric, and called over his shoulder. "Don't let the Trading Company harden that pretty mouth of yours, I'm sure the lads don't want to go home bruised. "

Evie clenched her fists in the darkness and resolved to break his head open with her wine bottle. But just as she felt her arm rise to do same, Sparrow turned back to her, brows creasing in the centre of his forehead, as though something had just occurred to him.

"Oh – should your wayward Barbossa ever darken your doorstep again you might consider passing on a little message for me – the gold ain't enough. Blood is the key. " With a grimy wink he whirled about and was gone, rain rising to patter down in his wake. And though she was soaked through in moments, Evie watched after him awhile, contemplating the meaning of his last words.

Should've taken Sparrow's coin and just fucked the bugger, were Evie's grim thoughts a week later. The rain had been relentless and business had been bad. With wet feet jammed into flaking shoes and sopping petticoats flapping about her legs, Evie recalled the rainy days of old with no small amount of nostalgia – Tortuga, once a whore's paradise. It made one laugh to think of it now.

Still, the money came steady enough and she certainly wasn't starving. Though there had to be better ways of spending an evening than shivering in doorways, throwing back your hair only to have it plastered to your skull, thrusting out your bosom only to have it collect rain like a bucket!

Pushing open the door of The Goose's Breast she sighed heavily and grunted a greeting to a couple of the girls who sat there, looking as foul-tempered as she. Black Ruth said nothing as she approached the bar but dolled up a glass of hot wine for Evie who made her a silent toast and sculled the lot and rapped the glass for another.

"What you got to nosh on, Ruthie?" And the matron shrugged, double chin compressing against the swell of her bosom.

"Same as usual, my sweet. Pies, bread, soup and stew. Take your pick."

"Mrmph. " Evie spun her glass about in her hands and felt an unbearable weariness about it all. "Give me a pie then, ta. Pork if you got it. Otherwise I don't care."

As Ruth turned to fetch the supper, Evie spun on her heel and leaned her elbows back on the bar, surveying the small tavern. Though the candles were all blazing and the fire was lit, it seemed a wet and wretched place that evening, due in no small part to the great quantity of water the whores had trekked in, from which it seemed their gloom wafted, drifting into the very cracks and crevices of the wall.

Ruth lumbered back from the kitchen, bringing with her a wonderful steaming hot scent, a wrapped pie in one hand, a bunch of apples in the other, pale green and gleaming softly in the candleglow.

"'Ad these too." Ruth said gruffly, jerking a head to the apples. "They ain't gonna last much longer and thought you might fancy a couple."

She dropped them onto the bar and Evie gazed at them silently before lifting her glass to her lip and swigging. So much whispered of the past.

"Thanks, I will." She said flatly and slapped down a couple of coins.

With mouthfuls of greasy pie and three green apples thumping a persistent rhythm against her leg, Evie braved the Tortugan night once more.

There was a new tremor to the air, a pulsation that was intangible, impossible to articulate but most definitely there. Like a shiver along her skin, Evie felt it and it enlivened her. There was a shift in movement on the street, a rising in the voices in the taverns. There was a new ship in, she was sure of it. And that meant money.

Without missing a beat she hastened towards the docks, tucking up her skirts, tossing back her hair and loosening her bodice. The dark horizon rose before her, the hulking still shapes of ships anchored there like shadowed beasts that watched over Tortuga, and there on the docks the swaying silhouettes of smaller creatures – men, roping in their boats, climbing up onto the wharves. Evie's heart leapt to see it.

But these men did not hasten, did not move with the frenetic energy of newly docked sailors eager for earthly pleasure, unable to stop darting glances up towards the town even as they went about the necessary duties. No, these fellows' every step seemed leaden, their heads bowed as though a weight too great for their necks to bear. They moved as if underwater, slow and heavy, and not a one seemed able to look upwards, up to the steaming town, aromatic with the odours of spices, wine and sex.

To see it brought a stumbling pause to Evie's step; and for a heart choking moment she fancied it was a ship of spectres that had docked, recently ruined and wandering the oceans still, haunting the ports of the Caribbean, trapped by the habits of their past lives.

And then, as the silent group stepped from the wharves and moved into the flickering light thrown by the town, she saw Barbossa's Boatswain and thought that her heart would indeed stop.

One by one the pirates approached the town, dragging their feet as though the sacks slung over their shoulders held the weight of the world, and one by one they dragged their gaze upwards until it came to rest upon her, where she stood outlined in the fiery light of the taverns' lanterns and damp from the elements.

They did not smile, their did not cheer, they did not quicken their pace but each came silently to a stop and stared at her, stared with a gaze that chilled Evie to her marrow. Each gaze was hunger-stricken with lust; but lust was not a gaze with which Evie was unused to being beheld with. No, it was the nature of the lust that chilled her – the haggard and leeching depth, the bare force of it. The sudden tension that gripped their jaws, ran down their arms, dug their feet into the sand, and for a moment she thought they were about to pounce upon her all at once, and she prepared herself to run.

Then there was a rippling movement amongst them, they drew apart in jerked syncopation and from the centre came their Captain, dark, tall and with shoulders as stooped as their heads were bowed: Barbossa.

And though Evie had prepared herself, upon seeing the Bo'sun, for the sight of him, still she drew back. It was not that he was ragged and glowering now, although he was. It was not the new scar that split his right cheek below the eye or the twisted set to his lips. It was the eyes; pale and gleaming in his weathered face, that so froze the blood in her veins. They were hollow and unrecognisable.

He surveyed the town beyond her, hard gaze traversing it until he came to where she stood and stopped. They stared at each other, he with his silent crew scattered behind him, and she, alone and shivering. He pressed his lips shut tight and began to step forwards and at his action the rest of the crew began to move also, hovering behind him like shrinking shadows. Evie felt her heart shred in her bosom to watch him, wrenching in a way that seemed it would seize altogether and pitch her, headfirst and dead to the ground, a creature that seemed all threat where before he had promised only pleasure. A bitter and savage sneer threatened to curl her lip and to mask it she snatched out, a desperate move she would never before have dreamed to do, and grasped the filthy wrist of the pirate nearest her; a skinny and hunched fellow with a wooden eye, who gasped at her grip as though it burned him and stared at her in wide-eyed apprehension.

"Oy, love" She managed a smile though it ached. "You fancy a tumble? Might temper your spirits. Tell Evie what you want, I'll make it 'appen for you."

The boy swallowed, hard and slow, and forced his one good eye to her shoes, as though to look at her was painful. "You can't know the 'alf of what I want, " he croaked and then he was pushed out of the way by the imperious and forceful arm of Barbossa.

He fixed his eye upon her with a look that was at once sardonic and savage, cocking his head to the side so that the feathers upon his battered hat bobbed and Jack the Monkey, who perched upon his shoulder, snatched out tiny brown fingers to play with them.

"Forgettin' your loyalties, Missy?" He enquired of her in a voice that softly hissed.

Evie was anything but quick to forget, even if the memories pained her. She allowed herself now to sneer and put her hands on her hip, tossing her head to the side.

"Seems was you who forgot. Thought you must've passed on or some such." Feeling her bravado as keenly as he must see it.

A smile crooked his mouth, frightening in its dispassion. "Ah. But I have." And his eyes widened ghoulishly. "Passed on further than the likes of ye could imagine." And with the slightest inclination of his head, gestured that she should follow him.

It was a moonless night, the sky altogether obscured by heavy clouds that loomed above them. They walked at arm's distance to each other, Barbossa's stride with a lazy swagger to it that belied the hard set to his jaw. Evie kept her chin up and a downward slant to her mouth so that he would not be assuming that he'd been at all forgiven for the last two years, or that she even still cared for him. Their feet splashed in the mud and the damp air whipped around them and lifted Evie's hair. But Evie was not accustomed to silence and she was not comfortable with it and at last she sighed heavily, as though the whole affair was a burden to her, and enquired with studied nonchalance:

"Been alright then?"

Barbossa snorted and looked down to the filthy street.

"Alright? Ah, wench, well should ye ask… In the two years since last I saw ye I have surpassed the prior thirty. If my name were known before, it is learned now. Where all other pirate ships fall and flounder, mine merely flourishes. From the battles I have fought with my crew I have kept the dreams and legends of piracy alive, amassed wealth in hoardes, struck fear throughout the seas… but more than this. Far more. I have been to land's unthinkable, seen things undreamable… with the maps that led me to ruin before I have conquered new and unpassable passages, met beings who t'were thought were mere fancies or who had long since passed into myth and traversed their realm. From there I have drawn new charts… charts no other man could use for no other man could survive their leadin's… and there be more of it yet before me…" And though the phrasing was the same as what she might have heard him utter in earlier days – not boasting or prideful, merely assured in the knowledge of its own splendour – his timbre echoed with discontent.

Evie was struck silent for a moment, unsure exactly what to say for it made little sense to her and spoke yet more of the life he lived that excluded her entirely – more than ever it seemed, and it made her keenly aware of all the time that had passed and that though she might know every scar and freckle and line upon his body, what stood beside her was a stranger. In the end she opted for a quip: "So. Not bad then, eh?"

He laughed emptily, a husky sound. "I'd trade it all for a good meal. And a warm woman. " He turned his head a little towards her and she caught the look the crept over his face before he looked back to the path ahead. Wistful, it was, with a yearning to it she couldn't fully comprehend. Surely on such grand adventures as those, there'd been women more gloriously exotic than she and meals finer than even a palace had to offer – but cursed, he'd said he was, cursed to "endless existence" as Sparrow had put it that warm and fateful evening three years ago now, and that was a terming she did not understand except that it seemed to mean that all of life was now a series of disappointments to him and that no amount of searching could deliver what he sought.

And what could she, a mere whore, say to alleviate that frustration, if she could not understand the very nature of it? He'd looked at her in a desirous way and it seemed silly to begrudge him his absence now and so she slipped an arm about his. He turned his haunted eyes down to her and half-smiled in a pained way and it prompted her to reach into her skirts and pull forth one of the apples she had purchased earlier.

"This do?" She queried with a gentle grin and he halted abruptly, drawing her to a stop with him.

Barbossa stared at the apple in her hand and then turned his eyes to her, his gaze uncomprehending and his eyes growing wild in their expression. She felt confused.

"They was your favourite, wasn't they?

A rage so great it seemed to scorch her overcame his face and he grasped her wrist so hard she cried out and the fruit fell from her hand, splashing into the mire at her feet.

"Do ye mock me?" He hissed. "Is this yer petty vengeance?" He shook her, hard, and she thought her wrist might snap.

"What is it? What do you mean?" She squealed in terror. "Hector! Not again, please!"

He stopped rattling her but did not loosen his grip, merely stared searchingly at her, his eyes boring a hole into her very core. The fury slowly eased from his brow and was overtaken by a desperate longing. His hands, nails broken and knuckles red, drifted upwards towards her face. Her wrist burned in the wake of grasp but she did not dare move as his fingertips grazed her cheek, did not dare until he began to advance on her and in numbstruck terror she moved backwards, until he had her pressed up against a wall, its sticky coldness pressing against her shoulder blades.

"Ye are…" and he seemed to stammer over the words as though they eluded him. "… beautiful still. I first saw ye I wondered how somethin' so lovely could bloom here, like a bud from muck, and not already have been marred though hard ye had lived. I knew that I must have ye rough and often before this life robbed ye of yer loveliness. And I thought, by now, it would be gone, all rubbed from ye as though stained and grubbied by the film of livin'. But ye have it still. Oh, ye are older. And tougher. And leaf and drink has made ye pale and thin. But ye are not coarse. And not cold, though ye make a bold play of it." He cupped her face with both hands and leant down towards her, his great shape blotting out the light about them so that she could see little in the darkness but the pale blue of his wretched eyes. "It did not matter before, not before, it seemed nothin' but the glorified christenin' of another fuckin' whore, but now I wish that I had been first at ye, for I put in a bid. But ye were not woman enough for me then and I would go no higher. And what now," His hands tightened about her jaw and her heart sped up in response as he leant down even lower so that his odourless breath swept cool over her face like the foreshadow of sorrow. "Now I cannot know ye anymore and am lost to senseless regrets, what purpose is there to me bein' here? But I have need to see somethin' other than the same faces, the same deckin', the same sails, the same riches and the same endless damned horizon and all of it mere spectre to me gaze. And yet somethin' still familiar, somethin' which calls to mind the sweet blush of pleasure long lost."

His eyes were filmy and he blinked rapidly, as though he'd bewildered himself by this speech. She wanted to cry, to scream, to curse the vicious gods who'd thrown this life upon her – oh, not the life of a whore for that had never been so cruel to her as the life of a woman disappointed in love. Impulsively, she leant up to kiss him, but he stopped her, jerking backwards with a rueful smile.

"Oh Evie," He shook his head, a soft chuckle echoing from his throat. "No point. No point and no purpose, at all."

Point and purpose enough for her, she thought bitterly, gulping the contents of a gin bottle down swiftly once they arrived back in her room. Did he not think that, after two years, she might like the press of his lips upon hers?

Wearily he shrugged out of his coat and threw his hat down. She had not failed to note that he wore the same garments that he had that dark morning those two years before and though she considered that it might be simple coincidence, she thought it more likely it was not. He did not reach for the rum bottle at her bedside, or call for wine, but stooped at the knees and sat upon her bed with a heaviness that seemed to push the loud sigh from his belly. Jack scampered upon the cushions and clambered up the bedposts, squealing now and then with his findings and Barbossa looked up at him with a curiously indulgent expression before making to kick off his boots, stopping mid-action as though to consider taking it to completion, and deciding that he would, then bringing his bare feet up to the mattress. But it all seemed so route, as though he were following a pre-determined sequence of motions, not because he sought greater comfort. She understood him not at all, now, she realised, and took another long, hard swig of gin, feeling the liquor pool in her belly, spreading down and up at once, numbing her loins and warming her heart. He watched her, his face devoid of all expression, and she felt that he almost looked through her, not just her, but the room itself. Looked beyond the worn rug and the battered furniture and the ragged and colourful clutter that consumed every surface. Looked to a place she could not see.

Ah, but he was there, wasn't he? After two years he had come back, and had called her beautiful, and spoken of wanting her. And setting the gin bottle upon the sideboard with a grim determination, she unfastened her bodice and let her sodden dress fall at her feet, revealing the blue chemise that clung to her, for the rain had penetrated deep enough to soak her right through. Thin he might call her, but she was shapely enough and she saw that he noted it. She pushed her hair back over her shoulders, holding his gaze with her old knowing boldness, then drew the chemise up and over her head, so that she was naked.

And she saw it, saw desire mist his gaze, saw him raise slightly off the pillows, draw in a deeper breath. Then he looked away.

She went to him, crawled up beside him on the bed, her knee pressing gently into his groin, an arm on either side of his waist so that her breasts dangled against his chest, and she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. He was hard, she could feel it, and she lifted a hand to stroke him. He caught her wrist and pushed her away and now she could not hide her hurt. "I'm not that fuckin' old." She whispered bitterly and he gave her a consoling smile, pulling a lock of her hair forward to toy it about gentle fingers

"Ye be a great temptation, make no mistake of that, wench. And I have spent many a pleasurable night in yer arms the last seven years. Ye have bestowed me with many fond memories on which to reflect upon when the voyages have been especially long and weary but these were all but obliterated last time I was about. " And they both averted their eyes at mention of it, as he curled a finger about her hair. "So let's leave it at that, eh?" He sounded as though he were striking a deal and she hovered only a moment before pushing herself from the bed and fetched a wrap with which to cover herself. He watched her once more with a funny little smile and then fished a small purse from his vest pocket, dropping it upon the coverlet.

"Consider it a night off. " And raised his brows. "Without the losses."

She turned from him, and fetched her bottle, searching for something to say. An empty green bottle stood on the sideboard, it had been filled with wine a week ago and brought to mind Jack Sparrow, the wretch upon whom she blamed the loss of her Captain. She stared at it for a long moment, considering her next words before turning back to Barbossa, saying carefully with eyes to the rug and giving no hint of the man who'd given her the information.

"So this… ah, this… curse…" She sensed him grow more alert, jerking his head up. "I 'eard somethin'. Don't know what there is to it. I don't even know what to make of what I 'eard. I just 'eard… look, I don't know if this will mean anythin'…" she sighed hopelessly and shook her head a little. "I don't understand even now… but what I 'eard… I 'eard that blood was a part of it." She dragged her gaze to him beseechingly. "That mean anythin' to you?"

He was gazing at her with quiet stillness, his face utterly composed, and yet she could feel he was drawn taunt. She feared he would question her further, want to know how she had come about this information, what it meant, but then he relaxed, shoulders easing downwards and his head dropping, an inutterable tiredness upon his face.

"Aye. I have heard similar." His sigh was great and followed by a murmur she only barely caught: "Then we can but hope the Turner child lives and was not upon the ship after all…"

She moved to him, curling herself up against his body on the bed and looking up into his face with all the desperate sadness she felt.

"What are you goin' to do then?"

And he smiled and dropped his head back on the pillows, chuckling. "It seems a pirate's search for gold never be finished. Least of all when the gold be cursed." He looked down at her, furrowing his brows. "I hear gold does not so easily find its way to Tortuga as once it did."

She shrugged, and drank. "I get by. Still got me room.."

He fell silent a moment, lifting a hand to play idly in her hair, then with deliberateness, drew the great ruby ring – the one Jack had thieved from him and she had thieved back for him – and pulled her hand from where it gripped her bottle, slipping it onto her thumb.

"Sell it." He said gruffly. "Don't go keepin' it. All paupers be the sentimental sort."

And she knew that he said that because he knew that she wouldn't heed him.

But she did not reply; she did not even thank him. She merely wrapped an arm about his waist and buried her face into his chest, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears that threatened to fall.

"You can't know how glad I am to see you." She managed to whisper, but he did not respond and she was not sure he had even heard her. He did draw her closer against him though, and one hand lifted and fell in long, gentle strokes against the back of her neck. She sighed, and pushed her cheek further against his breastbone and strove to catch his heartbeat. There was nothing, however, not even the rhythm of his breath.

Nonetheless she was comforted by his nearness and his touch soon lulled her to a deep and aching sleep in which she dreamed they drank and danced on the shore of a far off land she did not know the name of, and she was wearing a new dress, brand new, and the feathers in his hat were a bright and brilliant yellow. She bared her breasts to him and he laughed and kissed her warmly and they fell down on the sand together, dry, clean sand.

When she awoke she was tucked beneath her counterpane, her room dark and cold with the rain once again heavy outside, and he was gone.


	13. Chapter 12

These days Evie earned her living as much from card-playing as from whoring. At twenty-seven she was still a fine girl to look upon, the care she took in her skin and hair paying off despite the quantity of liquor she drank, so that both were still soft and shining. Her teeth were not too yellowed though she had lost a couple – up the back, thankfully, where they couldn't be seen. Small mercies. Since she had never given birth her breasts retained their firmness and sat high still and although her hips had spread a little she never really ate enough to make them much wider. More often she was pinning her hair back, but not high and tight – loosely, so that small curls escaped and scattered about her cheeks and forehead, softening her face and allowing her best features to be seen – her eyes, round cheeks and full lips. In the soft flare of candlelight, from a distance, she could still pass for a girl of twenty and it did not matter overmuch once they got near enough to discover differently for after fourteen years on the game she could flirt her way into any man's trousers, provided his eye was not first caught by one of the far younger girls Tortuga was increasingly finding itself home to.

But for those times, she had her cards, and she was never beaten – if she did not wish to be. Younger and younger girls arrived on ships seeking a better fortune than their prior port had offered, for everywhere was feeling the pinch of the East India Trading Company. Fresh, young faces – especially those that could claim virginity with some blood and pig's gut – would reap the best of the pickings for a few months, then sail off again to some other port. By the time they returned again, in six months time, enough of the old pirates had been hung with enough new hopefuls risen to take their place to make them a bright new face again. A lot of Evie's old companions – Mary Beth, Suzette, even Jasmine – had followed suit, but Evie had never been out of the port of Tortuga and too much feared the ocean, and what lay beyond it, to even contemplate the notion. She was bound to Tortuga, as much as if her ankles were rooted into the spurious black of its earth.

And, she wanted to be easily found, should Barbossa ever return, whole and laughing once more. Though this was not something to which she would easily admit, even to herself, even in the last blinking hours of the night, when she opened her music box and listened to the pretty, tinkling melody it played, wearing her ruby necklace and drinking mouthful after mouthful of gin until she could no longer keep her eyes open.

And there were benefits too, to being a familiar face. She could be relied upon for a quality of service the bright young things never much bothered with, being as transient as they were, and she still kept her comfortable lodgings with all the little extras that so differentiated her from them all, who were impatient and barely able to disguise their contempt for their clientele, deigning only to turn around, hoist up their skirts and bend over under the docks before moving quickly onto the next fellow.

There were enough young virgin lads still seeking glory on the seas who wanted the guidance and nurturing hand of an older woman (which, blast it all, they now saw her as!) to teach them the skills they finally dared pursue and enough older salt dogs, bow-legged and weary, who did not want the revolted disdain the prettiest and youngest whores could afford to treat them with, and they all cherished Evie's cheery temper and gentle manner. Oh Evie still did well enough indeed, thank you.

But cards served her just as well, and she played the young travelling whores as hard as the men, though they hated her for it – more than once she would take a girl's entire earnings of the evening, why she might as well have fucked the fellows herself! She'd not play her old pals – Scarlet, Giselle or any of the others – but had little scruple when it came to those opportunistic saucepots! Well, they had few scruples themselves, and all of them had to make a living and keep themselves in clean drawers, a bed and liquor! And, in Evie's case, her cocoa leaf, which she had learned of late from a customer to grind up into a fine powder and smoke. It had a far more powerful effect in a far shorter expanse of time in this fashion, but she also went through far greater quantities of it – one leaf could last her a couple of hours, one pipe of the crushed mixture but a few minutes.

She was finishing off a nice fat pipeful one crisp and peach-grey morning, the sort that promised a glorious day ahead, sitting on the docks and looking out across the harbour. Every centimetre of her skin was tingling and her head felt pleasantly heavy, as though the smoke had not fully billowed from her nostrils, but had filled up all the empty nooks and crannies of her skull, providing cushions for her thoughts to bounce off against. It had been a good night for Evie, good by the standards of the day at any rate, starting off with a successful game and finishing it with a few quick ruts behind a couple of taverns. She had a lovely cold pork pie waiting at home for her, and her sheets had not even been soiled that evening – all in all, Evie was feeling rather marvellous and thought she might idle for awhile and watch the sun come up

So she was not altogether sure whether to cheer or shriek when the ship with black sails glided into the bay, its figurehead with the sorrowful eyes and outstretched hand clasping a dove on the brink of flight calling to mind a pale dawn some nine years earlier when another ship with another figurehead, scarlet and blazing in the early sunlight, had dropped anchor and delivered calamity into her contented life. She had waited – days into months and months into years and not a one of them with any particular expectation beyond a dull hope – to see this very sight and yet she could not know what it would mean for her. Indeed, if it weren't for the cocoa leaf enlivening her blood she may have got up and dashed for the Maison Rouge, but instead she leant back on her elbows and watched to see what would happen next.

The men, from what she could make out of them (and her eyesight was just not what it was, constantly blurring at the edges, a stray tear sometimes inexplicably trickling down her cheek), were somewhat livelier this time about, but only a smattering of them clambered into the long boats to head for the Tortugan shore. They bore a few trunks and sacks, evidently for trade, but nowhere near so great a haul as Barbossa had so often brought in years long past. The long boats heaved up and over the waves, inching towards the shore. Behind them, the Black Pearl sat and swayed, just a little, not even the pretty pinkness of the early morning able to alleviate the gloom of its visage.

The longboats reached the docks, two of them and the men upon them went about the task of securing them in a businesslike fashion at the wharf two down from the one she occupied. The Bo'sun, the man who had sailed beneath Barbossa's command for some fifteen years or more now, was amongst them, directing the men with little more than a grunt and a glare. Evie saw him glance up, survey the port about him and take note of her, his glower heavier than ever she supposed from the past years of whatever hardship Barbossa had led him to, his dark muscles gleaming in the sparkling sunlight. But he made no acknowledgement to her. He and the men, a filthy, bedraggled lot, even by piratical standards, hoisted their goods upon their shoulders and made for the town.

Evie let herself flop back onto the decking and stretched her arms high above her head, feeling a succession of quick pops in her back. It felt good and she stretched again, but could not achieve the same effect. The sky was almost entirely light now and the sun's light was pleasantly warm. It was going to be a glorious day indeed. Evie withdrew her flask of gin and toasted the few clouds that scattered the skyline, changing their lavender hue for the most splendid yellows and pinks in a show that was most definitely flirtatious.

It did not take long for Barbossa's men to return from the town, walking single file, as silent and solemn still as they had been upon arrival. Evie pushed herself back onto her hands so that she might observe them closer. They had evidently been successful as their loads had gone. Strange, though, they had made no effort to secure their purses or hide the jangling of the coins. True, they were cutthroats, but they were on an island of cutthroats, and opportunistic cutthroats at that. It seemed they had met with no trouble, however, and Evie attributed it to the early time of the day – just about everyone was abed by now. The long boats were untied; the oars delved into the water and steadily, serenely, the pirates rowed their way back to The Pearl. Seems they had not bothered even to stop and see if there were any working whore still about – and there must've been a couple. She could see them, just barely, climbing back up into the ship, disappearing below deck.

Evie could not say what prompted her to wait, but wait she continued to do.

And soon enough, there was activity aboard the Pearl once more, the merest flicker here and there of a body moving upon it and then another long boat set out toward the docks, and now she sat up straight and crossed her legs and watched it intently, squinting her unaccustomed eyes against the harsh glare of the morning sun. It made now for the wharf upon which she perched, and she found that she was not at all surprised by it, or to see the Bo'sun stood in this one too, presiding over the other gents with great hands on his great hips. One dark fellow with a head of straggly dreadlocks roped the boat up and they all clambered onto the wharf, stepping over Evie's skirts and feet, for she did not bother herself to move. One or two of them glanced down at her, eyes darting and lips quivering, but just as quickly returned their gaze to the town beyond, the direction in which they moved. All except the Bo'sun, who remained in the boat, staring up at her from under his heavy eyelids, the keltoid scars which patterned his flesh less fearsome by daylight, seeming more like dull jewels that had been pressed into his flesh. Pressing her lips tight together, she lowered her eyes to his and returned his gaze calmly; at that he outstretched an arm to her and she took his hand and was lifted down into the boat.

And for only the second time in her life, Evie found herself travelling rapidly across moving water, watching the stern of the small boat tip up and down, the brilliant green waves parting willingly to make way for their passage to the dark and mighty Pearl.

This time it was not the rocking of the ship, the opaque mystery of the waves or the unsteady climb upwards that occupied Evie's thoughts; it was what state she might find Barbossa in, what new strangeness she might find upon him. The Bo'sun delivered her safely to the deck and without another word, left her there; disappearing through a hatch he shut with a sharp click behind him.

She turned, slowly, in a great circle, looking about her at this strange new ship which was so very different from the jolly and grand Siren of Barbossa's younger days. Oh, the Pearl was grand, there was no doubt of that, but a gloominess seemed to linger about her mast and sails, a tired and aching temper bowed her great shoulders and spine. Even in the crisp brightness of dawn a mist seemed to hover in the air and, involuntarily, Evie shivered a little.

"So how did such a flower come to be so far from earth?"

Evie whirled around to find Barbossa, sitting and stooped over, on the stairs that led up to the thingy deck, a little smile on his lips and his eyes hooded, Jack the Monkey perched on his shoulder and looking at her with wide, curious eyes.

She recovered quickly and made an effort at pertness. "Not exactly suave, sneakin' up on a girl like that! If you're goin' for the element of surprise, a bottle of gin would've stood you better."

Barbossa's smile widened, and leaning forward he lifted himself to a standing position, straightening slowly all the way to his full height, the little monkey chattering and pattering his paws upon his master's shoulder as some bloom of recognition came over his little brown features. He was Barbossa still, in many ways, but in many ways also he was so altered a man Evie may well have been persuaded to think him taken over with a doppleganger. He was unkempt, and ragged, the years showing themselves all the harder on this clothing and rusty hair. The grey coat was beautiful still, but it was worn and ragged as was the brilliant vest and she did not think he had bothered overmuch to have changed his shirt lately; not like he used to. He appeared not to have aged any further, not in the addition of new lines or mists of grey, at any rate, but there was a great weariness that seemed to bear his shoulders down, a cavernous ache in his pale blue eyes.

"Apologies." He said, limping heavily around to the door of his quarters. "I am quite sure I have somethin' laid down that may make amends, if ye care to join me. " Opening the door with a flourish he turned to her and made a small, mocking bow. "I'll have ye as my guest, wench, if it pleases ye."

She could not help the smile that leapt to her lips; there was very much something of the old Barbossa here in his manner and it gladdened her heart so that she practically skipped forward to take up his invitation, feeling her hair bounce around her face with the levity of her movement.

"You seem to limp most when it suits you." She couldn't help observing with a nod down to his knee as she passed him and he chuckled, shutting the door behind them.

"Ah. Some days it be stiff and causes me trouble. At least, I suppose it be such, for I cannot feel it, only know that it impedes me movement."

"And I see that you're still about, you little bugger!" she declared to the monkey who seemed to understand her and shrieked in return. Evie chucked her tongue and shook her head and Barbossa smiled wryly, lifting a hand to stroke the monkey's brow.

"You 'aven't wanted to dump 'im overboard yet then?" she queried and Barbossa allowed a short, sharp laugh to leap from his throat.

"Nay. Not yet. Indeed, he has proved to be most agreeable a companion, and a useful one too, though that may be to your disbelief."

Leaping from Barbossa's shoulder the monkey scampered across the floorboards and jumped upwards; onto a cushioned chair and from there onto a perch that dangled from the ceiling and had evidently been placed there for his express use. Somewhere along the way, Jack had acquired a colourful suit of his own pirate garb; white smocked shirt and bright red vest with gold (or were they brass? Surely you wouldn't waste good gold on a monkey!) buttons. Scratching his head the monkey contorted his mouth in a grimace and Evie checked to see if Barbossa were watching before poking her tongue out savagely at the little brute. The monkey danced upon the perch and chattered at Evie's gesture and Barbossa glanced over with an irritated frown.

"Now, Jack, is that any way to speak to a guest then?" and the monkey fell silent.

Rolling her eyes yet again at the strange bond the two of them seemed to share, Evie let her eyes roam from the perch and about the cabin.

The Siren had been a colourful ship, brimming with the prizes of Barbossa's long and successful career. It had reflected the hedonistic rouge as well as the shadowed glamour of the Pearl did now in his more solemn and severe state. The dark, carved furniture gleamed dully in the silvery light of the morning which glimmered through the thick panes of glass in the windows, without the candles lit there abounded a collage of shadowy corners which seemed to hang about the walls and shelves and chairs like cobwebs. It was a beautiful space, large and comfortably decked out, but to Evie it seemed heavy with sorrow and secrets. Barbossa watched her as she looked about, his hands moving as though independent of him, to locate a bottle of wine, heavy with dust, that he uncorked and poured out for her. She took the proffered glass with a nod of thanks, taking a deep draught. It was a rich vintage, and she choked over it a little – it was finer than anything she had tasted before and it occurred to her she was supposed to pause and savour it, but she had swallowed already. So instead she tipped a hip towards him, hand upon it.

"Been awhile."

And that strange little smile passed over his lips again. "I've had much to do, wench."

There was a sudden rap at the door and Evie started. Barbossa whipped his head to the door and grunted permission of entry and the door flew open to make way for three of the crew; one carrying a large tin tub and some linen, the one following him a coffer of steaming water and the fellow bringing up the rear a bucket of cool water. With a nod to their Captain, who eased himself slowly into a great burgundy arm chair, they set the things down, mixed the water in the tub, and departed. Evie hovered by the window, taking hold of the curtains and twitching them between her fingers, for she was somewhat confused and determined to ask no questions. When the door clicked shut behind them, Barbossa turned his gaze to hers, holding out a hand to her. Draining her wine she moved forward, took it, a warm shiver running through her at the familiarity of that rough and calloused palm, the strong long fingers that entwined around her wrist. His expression became softer, as though he were regarding her through the mist of many years.

"Evie… " he whispered, and his thumb caressed her palm, his other hand floating up to rest first at her neck, then sliding down over the swell of her breasts, to her waist. "… Undress for me."

And she smiled wide at him then, wide and happy, for this would seem to say then that in some form or another, the Barbossa she'd grown up with had returned, and happily she dropped his hand and unfastened her bodice while he poured her a fresh glass of wine, looking up at her with a strange and quiet expression, smiling a little.

Her dress was discarded, her stays and chemise followed and finally, she was naked and stretching before him and it felt like days of old before the burden of history separated them.

He did not reach out to touch her, but surveyed her body instead with grasping eyes and she was pleased the last five years had been so kind – it had been so long since she'd last been this way with him!

"Ye've more curve to ye," he observed approvingly. "Ye were always a trifle thin."

She smoothed her hands over her hips and shrugged. "'Ad a mite more of an appetite of late."

He flickered his eyes up and down here body. "Ye look well." And despite the understated tone to it, she could see the quiet hunger in his eyes and preened.

"Glad you think so!"

His eyes were growing brighter by the moment, and she thought that his grip upon the arms of his chair was growing taunter. He gestured with a jerk of the head to the tub.

"Bathe yeself. No doubt tis the end of a long eve for ye."

She felt a trifle bewildered, and wondered if he desired some strange reversal of their past encounters, but stepped over to the tub, her flesh goose-pimpling in the wave of steam that rose from it. That was tempting indeed. Let him have his fancies then, a hot bath was just what she needed most now!

One foot, then the other into the hot water and she gasped a little and shivered at the shock of it, balancing unsteadily while her feet and ankles grew accustomed to the new temperature. Barbossa marked her reactions keenly, following each one with luminous eyes as she steadied herself and slowly sank into the steaming liquid, starting again when her loins submerged and then easing back with a deeply satisfied sigh. Already her caramel flesh was steaming a rosy hue and the knots in her back were one by one coming undone and she drew in another great breath then let it all out in a sigh that loosened her even further, all beneath Barbossa's watchful gaze.

She let her head drop back and her eyes flutter shut, feeling the last remnants of the cocoa leaf begin to drift from her system. It had been a long night and the intensity of emotion she'd felt upon its most recent events were just beginning to catch up with her.

Forcing her eyes open and her head upwards to face her Captain, whose gaze was yet fixed silently upon her, she struggled to keep her alertness.

"So, where 'ave you been then?"

And he smiled and flexed his fingers, gripping the armchair tight. "Everywhere, wench, and then a bit further. There are unguents there. "

And he inclined his head to the chair beside the tub, where next to the linen a washcloth and bottles of soaps and perfumes stood. Shifting in the water she leaned across and retrieved one and with the cloth began to sluice herself with water, shutting her eyes and smiling with the restful pleasure of it.

"This is an odd request but one I'm damned 'appy to fulfil." she murmured cheerily and he made an amused little noise.

"Do ye ache from the night's business?" he queried and she thought that was a mighty strange question as well, but shrugged and continued to wash.

"I always ache, in one place or another, these days." She retorted. "And ever since I was in that fix a year ago I 'ave to go steady through the night, or pull a trick or two." He raised his brows in question and she half-rolled her eyes.

"Managed to get into a spot of bother, forgot to douse a night or two. Went to Bessie to get it sorted out and there was a bit of a mess. Laid up for two weeks, I was. Can't 'ave kids no more, not that I ever wanted 'em, and it means I don't 'ave to take no nights off work unless I fancy it, but it can be a bit troublesome at times. "

He half-turned his head to the side and peered at her. "Then small mercies ye still be among us, Missy." And her cheeks pinkened and she lifted the washcloth to her face and rubbed it clean and raw.

"Not so much a Miss, no more, Cap'n."

And the smile that creased his face was unexpectedly deep. "To me, always. Have ye done?"

She nodded and yawned, lifting a hand quickly to stifle it. "Sorry. Me leaf ran out."

He pushed himself from the chair and lifted the linen, shaking it out and holding it up. "Not at all. Tis past your bedtime, to be sure." She moved to take the linen from his grasp, but he held it fast, gesturing that she should step into it. The water streamed from her body as she stood and stepped from the tub, the deliciousness of fresh, soft linen against her flesh a giddying luxury in her weariness and she felt herself sway as he wrapped her tight and dried her off.

"'Eavens." She murmured. "So this is 'ow those swells feel. No wonder they all get so fat."

And he laughed a little and swept her up and off her feet. "The bath was a pleasure for ye?"

"Wasn't it just!" Sleep was threatening to overcome her at any moment and she struggled hard to remain awake. "That was splendid, that was." The dark panelling of the room tipped about her as he carried her through it, into another chamber where an enormous bed, heavily and finely draped, occupied most of the space. She half-swooned to see it, and then he was laying her upon it and she was sinking into the softness of its feathery depths, the difference to her hard straw mattress back in the Maison Rouge enough to urge a little groan of pleasure from her throat. The curtains were tight drawn shut in this room, the only light trickling through from the doorway that led from where they had just entered and Barbossa busied himself drawing shut the drapings around the bed, blotting the light out further and further until she could just make him out, a solid silhouette against the gloam, leaning over her where she lay, rubbing at her eyes.

"Is it to yer likin'? Is it comfortable?" he whispered and she wiggled further beneath the coverlets, deeper into a softness that wrapped around her like a cocoon.

"I've never been so comfortable." Her mouth felt like cotton, she could not lift her head now even if she had wanted to. The very last thing she could want for, before she was lost to sleep, was for him to press upon her, for his kiss. She wanted to reach for him, but could not quite summon the effort.

His hand came forth, only an indistinguishable shape in the shadows, and she felt it play about her forehead and cheek, brushing back strands of her hair.

"Sleep, wench, and rest. There be nought that ye must fear." His voice floated down through the dark, his breath caressing her eyelids and she blinked, slow and heavy and thought to ask him for a kiss but the words died in her throat as the final resistance of her consciousness gave way and she surrendered her body to slumber.

She awoke, not with a start despite her unfamiliar surroundings, but with a languid and delicious calm, deeply enveloped in a nest of soft cotton, wool and fur. The dim glow of candlelight half-lit the room from beyond the bed curtains and she sensed it was early evening by the subtle difference in depth to the darkness.

Barbossa's arm chair had been moved to the bedside, and he sat in it, watching her. To see it gave her a moment of disquietude, but she was more glad to see him and her newly wakened gaze run over and over his face, delighting in the long angular shape of it, the curls of his forked beard and the aristocratic sweep of his nose. His eyes were inscrutable, and he did not react for a long moment to her greeting smile. Finally, his lips stretched upwards in return and he reached out a hand to her, in which he grasped an uncorked wine bottle. She took it, tipped it to him in thanks and had a swig. It was another fine wine, as different from the swill she drank on Tortuga as the sea is to land.

"Spoilin' me a bit, aren't you?" She croaked, licking her lips so as not to waste a drop before taking another drink and his smile widened to reveal his teeth.

"Ye slept well?"

"Like the dead." She affirmed, and stretched her arms high above her head, the covers slipping down to reveal her breasts. He leaned forward and cupped one, holding it in his palm and looking upon it reverently.

"If you don't mind my sayin'", she piped up as her nipple came to attention. "You're in somewhat better spirits than you was last time you was about."

A laugh like a gust of breath escaped his mouth and her nipple tightened further to feel it. He withdrew his hand, fingernails scraping gently over her soft flesh and with a grin got to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed upon her. She was disappointed; and expectant. Better spirits, to be sure, but odd and out of sorts yet.

"Are ye hungry?" He enquired of her softly and she realised that she was – ravenous, in fact, as though the bliss of her deep sleep had flushed out all the congestion of cocoa and gin and made space for sustenance. Barbossa fetched from the back of his chair a brightly patterned wrap of silk which Evie hesitated a moment before accepting. It was very fine, slipping soft and cool about her shoulders, and she thought that perhaps it had not been worn before. It felt far too grand for the likes of her, but Barbossa hovered whilst she put it on and then fiddled with it a little, adjusting it so that it sat properly upon her shoulders. Then, enveloping one of her hands in his, he led her from the bed, through the still-dark chamber, and opened the door of the adjoining room, squeezing her hand tight and standing back, and Evie's senses were suddenly assaulted with the most glorious tumult of scents and sights.

The large dark oak dining table that occupied the centre of the grand room was groaning beneath the weight of food that sat there, all of it freshly prepared and still steaming hot from the stove, and all of it the likes of which Evie had never before laid eyes upon and couldn't hope to hazard a guess as to what it was called. Every candle and lantern in the room was set blazing, banishing the cobweb shadows that had made it so gloomy. The ruddy glow picked up reds and yellows in the gold and brass, the brocade fabrics, in the gleam of the wood and even in the glistening flesh of the suckling pig that squatted on the table, smothered in apples.

Evie could do nothing but stand and gape at the sight, the very stuff of fantasy and fancy. Such food – and in such abundance! Even as Evie's mouth watered she felt queasiness in the pit of her belly. Barbossa stood behind her with hands upon her shoulders, weightless and yet unignorable.

"Well?" His voice drifted from somewhere above her and she started. "Are ye hungry, or not?"

"You… you want me to eat this?" she questioned nervously and he squeezed her shoulders.

"Aye wench. Or do ye think me to be mockin' ye?"

She took a half-step forward, the strong, savoury smell of roast garlic and rosemary wafting from a plate of meat she thought might be lamb and filling her nostrils to the brim so that she swayed and paused again.

"Who else is joinin' us?" She could think of no reason for the sheer excess of the spread other than that Barbossa expected more guests – perhaps his crew – perhaps traders – but surely…

And Barbossa laughed, a rasping little bark as he moved from behind her and limped over to the table, where he withdrew a chair for her and indicated with a curl of his fingers that she should come and be seated.

"No one but ye and I, Missy. Thought that ye would perhaps enjoy what must surely be a rare indulgence for ye. Intended only to serve ye my most favoured dishes, but when it came down to it, as it happens, I was loathe to select just one. "

Evie again felt faint as she surveyed the feast laid out before her. The longer she looked and smelled, the hungrier she grew and the more reluctant to take a seat. The smile on Barbossa's face fell as she continued to hesitate until finally he scowled and demanded:

"What is it, whore? Not grand enough for yer tastes?"

And she picked up her heels and took the seat he held out, wanting a squabble least of all.

He moved around to sit beside her, drawing his chair very close so that their knees touched, and taking hold of her plate he began to pile it up with food – fresh crab and oysters, cheese and bread, olives and a large slice of chicken and mushroom pie, the pastry on it flaking delicately onto his fingertips. A bowl was filled to the brim with rabbit stew, deliciously aromatic in its rich gravy. There were two wine glasses before her and he filled one with white and the other with red, his movements becoming increasingly jerky, more eager until her plate and glasses would hold no more and then he sat back, a tremble upon his lips, brushing her hair back to twine it around his hand.

"Eat, eat." He urged her. "Eat yer fill, and then beyond it. Don't insult me generosity now, wench."

There was no place set for him, no plate, dish or glass. She glanced at him and he nodded at her, his expression taunt with expectation, then picked up spoon – the only utensil she knew how to use, having never had need of knife or fork with the fare on Tortuga – and began on the stew. Its flavour was beyond compare, so subtle in its delicacy, so sumptuous in its texture, that she could not resist the appreciative moan which burbled in her throat, and Barbossa's hand tightened in her hair, another hand reaching forward to thrust inside her wrap, stroking her breasts.

"Good lass." He murmured. "Enjoy it as loudly as ye would our sport. Be not shy about it."

She had almost finished the stew and the bread upon her plate before she dared ask: "Will you not be 'avin' any?" and he chuckled, a wild gleam to his eye.

"No pleasure in that for me, my treasure. No, ye will stay and enjoy this feast so that I may take pleasure in it. "

Evie chuckled a little and reached for her wine, Barbossa corrected her and gave her the white. "Compliments the flavour better."

"Darlin', I don't think I can possibly eat all this."

And Barbossa cupped her cheek in his hand and looked at her indulgently.

"Ye'll stay until ye've eaten it all. " And though he smiled gently, she rather felt he meant it.

Evie never ate a lot, being too far inebriated most of the time and too much intoxicated the rest to feel much hunger and her little belly refused another mouthful before she was even halfway through her first plate. She half-feared Barbossa would oblige her to keep at it until she burst at the very seams, but he was merciful and said she might return to it later, drawing her upon his knee and running his hands all over her. She was far gone on the richness of the food and the fineness of the wine (which was the one thing she managed to keep sipping at!) and relished the caress of his hands and closeness of his body with loud enjoyment.

"Awhile there I thought we'd never be at this again," and allowed her head to swoon upon his shoulder. He swivelled his neck about and kissed her and her heart swelled madly with joy. Throwing her arms about his neck, she responded with fierce passion making delirious little noises. When they parted she gasped and he stared intent at her.

"Does it give ye pleasure to feel such things with me?" he whispered and she cupped his face in both hands, her turn now to brush back his hair, to savour the feel of his life-worn skin beneath her fingertips.

"Gives me fuckin' bliss is what it does. Been five years too long since I felt like this. "

"Surely," he murmured, drawing closer to her so that his lips brushed hers, their eyes locking. "there has been some pleasure for ye amongst all those sailors…"

The nod of her head was barely perceptible. "Some. Nothin' ever like what I 'ad with you…"

He took satisfaction in that, a smugness about his lips before he kissed her again. She grasped onto him and tried not to cling too desperately in case he should suddenly throw her from him and yet she couldn't quite help herself – the intoxication of his embrace, the thought of which had consumed so many nights with an aching hollowness, was a pleasure she yearned to grab onto and swallow whole again and again; her appetite for it could not be satiated, only further piqued. And then she was once more lifted into his arms, stripped free from the wrap and assaulted by his hands and mouth, neither of which seemed to part company with her flesh on all their long explorations. He laid her back upon the bed and kissed her from the tips of her hair to the toes, taking each one into his mouth before moving back up to do the same with her fingers. When she moved to touch him, he arrested her hands and pushed her back down continuing his languorous journey of her body for the longest time, pausing only to mark the rise and fall of her breath or the gasps of pleasure she uttered. His calloused hands played softly upon the length of her torso, stroking and rubbing her, rolling her over onto her belly to do the same to her back and buttocks. He did not touch her sex, made no hint of it, but it grew swollen and wet from the pleasures he delivered to the rest of her and began to ache for a touch. But he kept on with his excruciating play, moving slowly and coolly to her breasts, where he spent a long while, kissing and nibbling, sucking, stroking, tenderly kneading them and her sighs grew louder and finally she could hold back no more and entreated him to get between her legs. He grinned, sly, and delayed her gratification yet further with a sweet and lingering kiss before finally moving backwards, pushing her thighs up and open, gazing upon her for a long agonising moment before beginning his administrations.

He teased her for a long while, with his hands, with his mouth, many times over bringing her to the brink of orgasm and that stopping so that she cursed him then begged him not to stop. He would half-laugh, a vehement need burning deep within his eyes, and then recommence. Finally, when his lips had been playing upon her pleasure-spot in the most torturous fashion only to once again depart on the brink of her ecstasy, her body could bear it no more and carried her into a delicious climax, though he was no longer touching her. He laughed outright to see it and finally slid his rigid cock from where it was confined, and slid it into her.

He did not rush or thrust, there was none of the old urgency or frenzy to his pace. Slow, steady, almost lazy in its complacent languidness, she arced beneath it and felt her insides cling to him. A part of her missed the old rapaciousness, but an equal part of her revelled in his purposeful and calm dedication. With this gentle fucking, with his hands and his mouth, he brought her to climax three or four more times, each time relentless in his pursuit of another burst of pleasure from her, no matter how she panted, giving her only moments to recover and setting about the task with a single-mindedness that refused to be disappointed. He remained erect throughout but evidently had no climax of his own, smiling only when she came, when she moaned or bucked, when she laughed or gasped, his eyes greedily, hungrily drinking every gesture, every twitch, down in ravenous gulps.

When finally his desire to see and hear her writhe about beneath him was sated, she fell into a warm, tingling sleep, still wet between her thighs, the marks of his lips still burning on her breasts and belly. She awoke to find him lying beside her, stroking her softly and looking down curiously into her face.

"Did ye dream?" he whispered in the dark stillness and she confessed that she could not remember; her sleep had been too deep and satisfying. He sighed a little and drew back the covers, silently pushing her thighs apart and she found herself once again ensconced in bliss.

And so it went on, for a day or more, for she lost all track of time and found herself not overmuch bothered by it. At regular intervals he stopped and bid her eat, and she found that she could manage more each time for their rutting enlivened her appetite and without her cocoa leaf (which he refused adamantly to have fetched for her) the food was also a comfort to her mind. Jack the Monkey leapt in to aid her at one point, for which Evie was grateful (though loathe to confess to) although the only items he took special interest in was the fruit and that caused a bit of a squabble between the two so that Barbossa was obliged to intervene with a roll of his eyes and a sigh. Growing quickly and constantly drunk on the fine wine (to think – all this time without her gin!) she grew more and more encouraged by the delight her took in her gluttony, giggling as he spooned great mouthfuls of succulent fish and onions into her mouth.

"I'm going to get fat from this!" she laughed, wiping at her mouth and he fetched an especially oversized slice of the pig, feeding it to her from his fingertips.

"Ye'll be starving yerself on cocoa leaf again before ye know it." He consoled her mockingly, and pinched one of her bare thighs so that she squealed.

The monkey was finally banished after he tried one too many time to interrupt their sport and Barbossa wearied of it. She felt truly free then, truly unfettered in her enjoyment and surrender, and that Barbossa was most wholly all hers for a time.

The crew did not disturb them at all and she could not help but wonder, on the odd occasion he let her rest, what they were doing with themselves.

"Are the lads about in the port then?" She queried of him from the bed, holding her swollen tummy in her hands, rubbing her moist thighs together and luxuriating in the ridiculous decadence of the whole affair.

Barbossa snorted and picked up one of her feet, stroking it gently and turning her ankle this way and that as though to admire it like a piece of sculpture.

"If they are, it be only to trade our wares for more gold."

"I noticed they didn't stop long enough to make sport when I was fetched."

Barbossa looked at her sharply, his lip curling slightly at the edge. "Do ye think they wish to be over-minded about that which they can no more enjoy? Nay, wench. They have little pleasure these days, save but for the pleasures of piracy. And piracy has made of us rich men, though we have little use for our riches." His voice was equal in sorrow to bitterness and Evie sat up, leaning over to wrap her arms about him and drop kisses on his tattooed shoulder. "So we do nought but amass them, in greater and vaster piles, and it's never enough. No, we must take more and more ships, storm port after port, strip them bare, sell what's worthwhile – furniture, ornaments, stock, women – and sink to the bottom of the depths what isn't – men, mostly." And he laughed, a cruel sound, as his eyes glittered devilishly with his recollections. "And our swag and our profits we pile up until the day we may once again make good use of them."

He whipped his head around to Evie, who started at the ferocity of his glare, and sat back on her heels. "And that day will come, wench. Mark my words well. That day will come. I will not be denied. I will not be cursed. No force on earth may hold from me that which I most desire." A frenzied delirium had stricken his gaze and she felt her heart begin to pound within her breast and wonder if there would be some harshness in this for her, but after a moment of gritted teeth he eased once more and swept a hand through his hair, his head bowing down to rest upon his chest, now looking simply like a weary and much roughened sailor.

"I have somethin' for ye." He murmured and rose from the bed, squeezing her knee as he did so. The candles had burned down almost to their ends and he shifted across the room like a spirit to a great trunk that sat pushed up beneath one window. Kneeling down, he lifted open the lid and from within it withdrew a tumult of bright and colourful fabrics. Rising slowly to his feet, he shook them out one by one and she realised they were dresses, brilliant, bright and glorious new dresses with fine pleated tucks and brocade trimming, layers and layers of lace frothing along various edges, beaded ornamentation glittering in the bleary light. Evie gasped and pushed herself off the bed, moving forward as if spellbound to grasp hold of one that he held out to her, bright yellow and black with jet beads lavishly embroidered along the bodice.

"Many a young lass's trousseau has been raided for these." His smile was wry and slightly sneering. "But we did not know which would fit ye. So take yer pick, wench. A never-worn dress may light you quite a bit more brilliant than the younger tarts you stand amongst."

Evie had never had a brand new dress before and never thought that she would. Every scrap of clothing that had ever been over her back was second-hand, whether from her mum, her mum's friends, other whores or some pirate's swag nabbed from a lucked out lady on the shores of Tortuga's dawn markets. She could see at once the yellow and black one was too big for her, the plum one, though utterly splendid, too small. Pink had never suited her, and blue was somewhat too muted when it was that dark a shade… there was one, though, of emerald green and cream, with a very low cut bodice and a bow right upon it that would draw appropriate attention to her breasts. Its sleeves stopped at the elbow and showered lace downwards, trimming of seed pearls and crystal beads sparkling in such a way it would catch the eye as she moved her hands about. The overskirt was split right down the middle and she could always, easily in fact, leave out the cream underskirt to show off her legs in their garters…

He assisted her into it, pulling it in tight at the back as far as the laces would go. It was an inch or two too big, but that would be easily adjusted. Evie felt herself grow taller at the swish of silk against her calves, the caress of the lace down her forearm, and she threw back her shoulders and strutted about for Barbossa who laughed to see it and clapped his hands in mocking gentleness.

"Well, well, well. " He seemed almost to enjoy her delight as much as she felt it, his eyes traversing her roughly and with no small degree of appreciation, up and down. "Ye could almost pass for a lady." And coming forward, he took up her small hand in his great one and pressed cool, rough lips to it before flashing wicked eyes up to hers. "Almost."

And she snatched her hand away in feigned outrage. "Well, it wouldn't be no good to me if I did, now would it?" and then laughed and threw herself upon him, raining kisses upon his chest and collarbone, as high as she could reach on tiptoes without him stooping over. "There's not a girl in town who would have a brand new dress for her own!"

"I'm glad it pleases ye." And he tipped her head backwards and kissed her soundly and she pushed upwards into it. It did not last long enough and he had released her, pushing her back, a frown creasing his countenance. "But now, Evie, I grow weary and ye must go."

Her joy fled, she felt her shoulders sink downwards and gazed at him in dismay. Oh, she'd known that this time would come, of course she had; still she had become all too easily enraptured in his cocooned world here, all too readily bedevilled by his conjurations of pleasure. He glowered to see her look and snapped: "Don't be lookin' at me like that wench, ye've had all that I can give, and more besides, these last few nights. "

She swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded, drawing her hands up behind her head and shaking out her hair. "My thanks to you, for all of it." She managed. "I've 'ad a – a swell time of it." And cursed her inadequate tongue – she'd never had such a time in her life, not in all her short, simple yet cheery life had she known such an endless and abiding melody of pleasures, all piling one on top of the other, all entwining and spiralling inwards and, at their centre, why just her, little Evie the whore from Tortuga, she the reason and object of it all. And she felt such a crescendoing of emotion then, such a teeming force of desire and passion and longing amplify within her she rather thought it might come surging from her throat and eyes at any moment and she had to swallow again, breathing slowly and softly to quell the fire, to steady her heartbeat. Trembling, she raised round eyes to him, to the stern and fixed equanimity he regarded her with, and though he held the expression intractably, she caught a twitch on his lip, a quiver deep, so deep it were a mere flicker, in the sea-foam blue of his eye.

"Hector." And at the way he looked at her, sudden and grave alarm lighting the depths of his eyes, she knew that he anticipated what she was about to say and she hesitated, pondering the words that now rose, quite unbidden, to her. They'd never been uttered from her lips before, there'd never been cause for it. Well, she'd always thought them foolish words, really, silliness for lads and lasses whose boots were still shiny on their bottoms. Now, as they bubbled within her, rising up through the pit of her stomach to tickle the back of her throat, she found they had a curious and pleasant magic, one that made her somewhat giddy and she understood why all those kids were so enthralled with it all, and why so many became sick with it. "Hector, I – "

"I have long owed ye a great debt," he interrupted her abruptly, shifting so that he was turned from her, his gaze now fixed out the window, where the ocean stretched on endlessly. "A debt for the generosity of your favours over the years in spite of the cruelties I have oft showed ye. Ye may consider the debt now settled, Miss Evangeline. Now, leave me be. I am weary, I tell ye, and a ship is no place for a woman for too long."

So stifled, Evie miserably choked back her disappointment, her elation turning swift to a soreness she could barely stand and turned, fine dress swishing a winsome tune as she fetched her shoes, her old dress, her pipe.

Barbossa coughed, moved to a desk and from its drawers drew a small leather sack. Opening a heavy brass chest that sat on the desk, he scooped handful after handful of gold and silver pieces into the sack, equal and perhaps in excess of what Evie had stashed away back in her room and her eyes grew saucer-like to see it.

He did not look directly at her as he handed the sack over to her and raised a brow, cocking his head sidewards. "Mind ye secure that beneath yer skirts before ye get back."

She thought to make some remark, how the more distant he grew the more handsomely he paid her, but she felt she did not want to part with such words, being that she knew not when he would return, if return again he ever would. So instead she said nothing and allowed herself to be ushered to the door, every nerve in her body screaming in yearning at the feel of his hand on her elbow; from there it moved to the small of her back and pushed her outwards, back out onto the deck, where a high yellow sun broke the final strands of the spell she'd been under and across the glittering blue expanse of the sea, Tortuga and her life squatted and waited patiently for her return.

She turned back for one last look at him and he finally offered her a smile, small though it was and there was a shadow of the old Barbossa there within it. Then he widened his eyes emphatically at her.

"Spend it wisely, now."

And with a gruff chuckle, he clapped shut the door to her.


	14. Chapter 13

"Thank ye kindly, once again, Miss Evie." Gibbs grinned drunkenly at the whore who smiled and chucked his cheek before opening the door that he might depart.

"You take care now, ducks, alright?" she dropped a hand to his shoulder and patted it. The pirate blinked at her blearily and smiled a touch wider, swayed unsteadily, then began a lurching departure from the room. He near-tripped over the rug, but made it through the door without further incident. He hummed a little to himself as he went, turning about the hallway in confusion for a moment before locating the staircase and stumbling toward it.

Evie shut her door, smiling a little still and wondering if he would make it to the streets without breaking his neck. Gibbs was an old dear and all the whores of Tortuga were mighty fond of him. His coin more often than not went on drink but he always scraped together enough on a regular basis for carnal pleasures and would rotate amongst them, paying whatever their top rate was. It was good of him and he was gentle and considerate and did not ever overstay his welcome. A prince among pricks, Evie had always said.

Evie dressed herself once more, trembling. Lately, she was much taken to violent chills even when the weather was fine, and would warm her gin at the hearth to help keep them at bay. Fastening the hooks of her bodice, she checked her reflection in the rippled glass to see if it pleased. The dress she wore had been hemmed and rehemmed many times over, its edges grown ragged from dragging in the mud, so that now it skimmed the back of her calves. Its bodice had been cut much lower when Evie had turned twenty-nine and noticed fine lines in the corners of her eyes and that meant that its once lavish lace trim had been discarded. Nonetheless, it still fit her well and its jewel-tone was still bright and cheerful enough to catch the eye, especially against the red of her hair, and that was still long and thick.

Squinting at herself Evie judged that her lip colour needed deepening and so slugged back long and hard of her gin bottle and hastily rammed what was left of her cold pie in her mouth before judiciously applying a streak of carmine. Smacking her lips together and fluffing up her hair, she gave herself a wink then let herself out of her room, trotting quick down the stairs to make the most of the rest of the night, a pretty and bouncing little creature in a green silk dress.

Out on the warm and dusty streets of Tortuga, whores flirted and men drank and all of them fought. Musicians stood in every corner, at every window of every tavern and belted jolly tunes in time to the punching, sword-clashing, guzzling and grunting. But Evie did not have to elbow a single person out of her way as she moved along the streets. My, but Tortuga was a quiet town these days! Business was still fair enough, but Evie had long given up thoughts of early retirement, though Barbossa's last generosity would last a good few years once the time did come – Tortuga was still a free port, and a cheap one.

Under one awning, a make-shift stage had been set up, a couple of strapped barrels forming a podium over which hung a rough-painted sign: "Buy a Bride". Evie peered over the dust kicked up by a quarrelling duo and spied Scarlet there, as usual, making the most of her little venture. Nearing forty, Scarlet had all but given up whoring and had instead initiated this innovative little scheme – the men would bid for their bride, the local parson (a man ejected from his parish in Scotland due to a penchant for ceremonial wine and altar boys) would marry them and the bride would go home and entertain her dearly beloved, playing house and ensuring she got him drunk enough over the next few days to make good an escape and be back at the podium again a couple of nights later to go to a new bidder.

The parson got a cut, and Scarlet got forty percent of all the bids from the wenches who wanted in. Scarlet herself had been wed over twenty times now and from the looks of things was about to make another successful union; she stood upon the stage twitching her rose-coloured skirts and grinning at the one-legged fellow who put up for ten silver pieces.

Evie laughed to see it and continued on her way. Such a sport was not for her; for one thing she would split her earnings with no one and for another there was still a pleasure in the chase of the game for her. Fortunately, for all whores who worked the ports of the Caribbean, the odd successful pirate ship still carried men so fuelled by triumphant ecstasy that no sooner had gold touched their hand than it bounced straight back out of it and into the coffers of publicans and the pockets of whores. Unfortunately, such was the scarcity of truly worthwhile hauls on the seas anymore that the pirates were all the more inclined to be tight-fisted in times of hardship. The pirates of old – the pirates Evie remembered from her mother's days and from her own early career – Roberts, Morgan, Blackbeard, Drake and Bellamy – fellows so glorious, so bedecked in finery and the shine of their own legend that they dazzled the eye to look upon them, so preceded by their reputation that they seemed gargantuan in comparison to all the men about them – those near mythological men bellowing laughter, brandishing swords, leading battles that thundered throughout the oceans and wanting nothing more than to spill gold and dance and drink when they were at rest – why, those men were long past into history and now seemed merely myth next to the sorrowful, bedraggled and whimpering lot of the times, who whinged and whined and near bored Evie stiff.

No, the old days were long gone and now there were only ghosts of them left in the sallow, knock-kneed old gents that were content to pilfer a whaling boat if it meant they would not run afoul of the East India Trading Company – no spirit to them anymore. There was only one true pirate threat left on the oceans… and that ship never dropped anchor in the port of Tortuga. Not anymore.

All that she knew of Barbossa these days were stories. Stories of ports brought to their knees and ship after ship dusting the bottom of the ocean as he and his crew cut a swathe through the oceans. It seemed no force could bring them down, not even the Company; any ship that it sent after it met a wretched fate. Barbossa almost single-handedly kept the legend and spirit of piracy alive, whispers of the tall and ferocious pirate lord with a flair for the dramatic, the cruel smile and the compelling presence still fluttered on the lips of sailors and wenches alike who found themselves on Tortuga's shores. Evie had at first listened to each one with eager hunger, pumping every informant for the last skerrick of knowledge they had, but these days it all sounded the same. It was the same – Barbossa and his crew sailed, they attacked, they conquered. They had become noted for the type of gold they seemed to prize above all else – anything exotica, of the Incas, the Aztecs and other relics from the Americas – so long as it were gold – and Evie did not need to ponder long, simple whore or not, to gather the motivation behind that. But what did it matter? After a while, Evie stopped wondering if Barbossa would call in again, if she would lay eyes upon him. She stopped composing speeches of the things she would say to him if he did or playing out fantasies of the life they might lead together if he was triumphant in his pursuit and returned to her. After awhile, she ceased to think of him at all. Except once, sometimes twice, a month when she would take a night off with wine and rum, fetch out her old music box (the tune would not always play now, or when it did would veer screechingly off course, the damp had got into it one month when it had rained constantly) and play with her old trinkets and drink until she passed out, as quick as she could so as to outrace the tears.

Evie stopped into the Duck and Swan, catching up the arm of one cheerful fellow for a quick jig out of which she scored a drink, neatly lifting it from the fellow's hand as he bellowed his delight, and went to perch in her usual corner. This was a place much changed now – where once it had been for those who fancied themselves (or could afford to pass off as) more genteel than the usual scruffy mob, where soliciting directly had not been permitted and where you might expect to find a high standard of – well, just about anything at all you needed from a tavern on Tortuga, with prices to match – now it had been obliged to open its doors to whomever fancied entering. Whores fraternised freely and its best vintages had long been sold out for half of what they'd originally cost. It had been Barbossa's favourite of course, for quiet when he needed it, and always first choice for a decent feed. She drained the tankard (ale, for pity's sake! What swill!) and almost wondered what he would think to see it now.

Nearby, a table of salty dogs, long retired from sea, were wearily enduring the presence of some whelp who blustered and blagged about his recent success with the pirate ship he'd taken up with. Evie immediately pegged him as a potential customer and began listening carefully so as to best devise her approach.

"Chinese ship, it was, filled with objects such as the likes of which you'd never seen! All manner of torturous instruments, such as only the minds of a barbarian could conceive – and a lot of good it did them too!" Here, the lad, a lithe brunette with a criminally beautiful face, laughed and slapped his hand upon the table. "We sold 'em all to the slavers in Port Royal and kept their fancies for usselves. Truth be told, they didn't have much as what was any good, but I got my hands on a couple of nice things – weapons and such – but these, these are me pride they are!" and he delved into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a ragged blue kerchief, tightly wrapped. Placing it on the centre of the table, it made enough of a clunk to cause Evie to sit up quite straight, and he carefully unfolded it to reveal the delicious yellow hue of gold.

But not just any gold. No, not just any gold at all. Gold in all shapes and sizes, with all manner of designs stamped into it, constantly passed into Tortuga, and into Evie's hands. She had seen almost as many patterns as men, but there was only one design that was burned into her memory and she near choked and leapt from her skin to see it there, winking as slyly at her as it had nine years prior. Cursed Aztec gold.

The old dogs put in a valiant effort to make impressed noises at the lad's coup, but there was not much passion in it. Evie knew they must be calling to mind the hauls of years past, and probably wishing they had put a bit more of it away. But Evie was very much interested in this boy's swag and it propelled her from her seat and into action, making a loud cluck of appreciation.

"My, my, fine bit of swag you 'ave there, my young genel'man!" she declared, lifting a hand to the boy's shoulder and smiling up at him, her very brightest and most shining smile.

The lad smiled down at her, just as widely and began wrapping up his precious bundle once more. "Why, I thank you for your most enthusiastic admiration, madam, but I fear I may have to disappoint you – I intend to keep these very fine pieces as commeratives of my first successful venture – and with all due respect, were I to spend any gold this eve, it would be on one somewhat younger. " He tucked the kerchief back into his pocket snugly, and smiled with all the self-assurance of youth. Evie did not miss a beat, laughing merrily as though he had made a fine jest and indicating to the old dogs.

"Did you 'ear the lad, gents! 'E thinks a scrawny ragamuffin as the likes of 'im is what I crave! Not that you're not pretty, mind!" she reassured the lad kindly and he politely tried to refrain from rolling his eyes.

"Thank you, I'm sure."

The old gents clustered around the table smiled wryly amongst themselves and gazed back into their tankards.

"Life treatin' you alright then, Evie?" One half-grinned and took a gulp from his drink. They all knew her, these fellows, and would not betray her. Indeed, she rather thought they would enjoy whatever she had in store for the lad.

"Yeah, not bad ducks." Evie rubbed a hand over his grizzled head and returned her attention to the lad, who cocked one hip forward arrogantly and surveyed her from thickly lashed lids. "No, no, my darlin', you was more right in your first utterance – is gold, is what I crave, but not from sweatin' under the docks is 'ow I intend to get it. I was merely wonderin', sweet'eart - " and from within a fold of her skirt she withdrew her old, stained card deck and riffled it loudly in her hands with high-raised brows and an inviting smile. " – if you was a gamblin' man?"

The lad took a step or two back from Evie and let his eyes openly traverse her up and down in a blatant assessment. For all his swagger, Evie could see straight away he was very new to these parts and trying to hide it. To him, she probably looked like nothing more than an alcoholic whore, past her prime and desperate yet to try and persuade a copper or two from him, even if she had to lose a few first to get there. And she knew it to be a certain when he, with a mocking flourish, accepted to sit down to a game with her.

He made a derisive comment on the state of her pack and Evie acknowledged openly it was a ragged old deck indeed (and how could the brat know what it meant to her?) and inwardly mused upon how the boy had survived this far – if he did not realise that a much-used pack was nowt but indication of experience rather than affluence? The folly of youth – though Evie had never been that young, not like that! She smiled, fluttered her lashes at the boy, ordered a bottle of gin for herself, shuffled, cut and dealt.

Evie was at first mindful to lose as much as she won and let him win a few very high-stakes hands so that the glow of victory would fire his blood and urge him to push all the harder. And when he was all but crowing in his chair and she was down to but a few brass pieces, she began in earnest to play. She stacked the deck and played him hard. It took only an hour or two and then the whelp was sitting, head in hands and moaning as Evie carefully counted her winnings into her purse, not seeming to favour any coin over the other though her heart thundered with every medallion that clinked into her lap. He had hesitated over wagering them, but the blush of his earlier triumph was still upon him and he thought surely the odds must swing his way again, never realising that Evie held full rein over the odds and in whose favour they would steer.

"Seems as there's much to be said for bein' somewhat advanced in years, wouldn't you agree, ducks?" she queried him chirpily and the old dogs at the table beside them, who had watched the whole game with far livelier interest than they had paid to the boy's stories, chuckled to themselves. When the lad shot them a fierce, red-eyed glare, one gave him a kindly nod and placed a gnarled hand upon his pistol, a clear advisement of what would await if the boy chose to debate his loss.

Evie bundled her winnings tight, drained her bottle of gin, dropped a kiss upon the forehead of each of the old sea gents, and skipped from the tavern into the star-speckled town beyond, knowing it was time to call it a night.

Back in her room, Evie nestled in the centre of her bed and let the medallions clink through her fingers, bouncing onto the coverlet with dull thuds. She shivered and pulled her old wool wrap tighter about her shoulders, feverishly taking a sip of hot gin. The death's heads grinned garishly at her from where they lay and she stared them down, thinking of all the mischief they had caused these past ten years. She did not altogether know what would happen now, or what even to do – but these medallions, at least, were safe with her and would go no further than this room for a time. No, here they would stay, secured carefully in the post of her bed, and wait, as long as they needed to.

As it turned out, that wait was not a long one.

It was barely two weeks later, one very late and unusually chill afternoon, that Evie was jerked from a deep slumber by a thunderous roar.

She sat up in bed, gasping, her heart beating fit to break, struggling to understand what it was that had so roused her. A storm, in the dry season? From beyond the walls of the Maison Rouge she could hear the sounds of the town, though it seemed somewhat early for things to be quite so lively. And as her breathing slowed and her heart rate calmed, Evie realised it was not the sounds of people laughing and cheering, there was no fiddle beating out a jolly tune – no, what filtered through to her dark, small, shabby little room were the sounds of panic and fear – screams and shouts, entreaties and protestations, swords clanging and guns blaring and then –

- there was another roaring explosion, louder even than the first, as though it were nearer to where she lay, and Evie cried out and threw the covers up above her head, trembling in terror at this strange and inexplicable catastrophe of sound. Oh what was it, what was going on?

A sudden hammering at her door and Evie shrieked despite herself and quaked still further until the familiar voice of Giselle could be heard above the din:

"Evie! Evie! It's me, are you in there?"

Evie flung the covers back and darted for the door, hastily unlatching it and throwing it open to admit her pal. The two bore down on the door, shutting it heavily and Evie locked it again with shaking hands before they ran back to her bed and there buried themselves beneath the covers, clinging to each other in panting fear.

"We're under attack!" Giselle squealed, her breath hot on Evie's face beneath the covers. "Tortuga is under attack!"

Another explosion ripped through the air, prompting the girls to scream out again and Evie felt herself grow faint even as she struggled to understand what Giselle was saying.

"But what do you mean? Who would attack Tortuga? Why? Is it the Tradin' Company then?"

Giselle shook her head, her face strained and taut with fear. "Nay, darlin'. Oh God, Evie. I was down at the docks when they got 'ere. It's the Pearl!"

Evie felt herself freeze, a lurch in her chest so sharp it caught her next exhalation at the base of the throat. She felt her grip on Giselle grow tight, her nails digging into Giselle's skinny back so that the other girl gasped to feel it. If it was the Pearl – if it was Barbossa – then they were here but for one thing – and she knew what it was.

She freed herself from the entanglement of the covers, leaping to her feet on the bed, not heeding Giselle's panicked entreaty. Fumbling with fingers so anxious they locked at the joints, cursing herself blue, Evie pulled the medallions from their hiding place, the clink of them in the little purse sharp against the cacophony of violence beyond. Giselle was up on her knees clutching at Evie's shift:

"What are you doin'? You're not goin' out there, for God's sakes, you'll be killed! It ain't the old days!"

Then there was a blood-curdling scream that caused both women to start and Evie fell to her knees besides Giselle. The scream had not come from outside – but from within the house.

Evie recovered quickly, struggling to her feet, into a robe.

"Giselle!" She panted. "I 'ave to go. I know why they're 'ere. You stay put, alright?" There were tears streaming down Giselle's face now as she tried to grasp Evie and pull her back. "Don't' ask me to explain now!" She wrenched herself free and gave her friend a pleading look. "This 'as to be settled."

And then she was at the door, unfastening it and bolting down the swaying stairs. On the first floor she drew up short; before her were a gang of pirates, a weeping, half-naked whore restrained by the bulging arm of one cruel looking fellow, whilst the others pulled apart her furniture and tossed it out onto the landing, shredding pillows and dresses so that feathers and velvet misted the air like some peculiar snow. She recognised them, remembered them when they had sang and drunk and spent money deliriously; now they swivelled filthy necks to stare at her with wild, desperate glares.

Her breast rose and fell with haggard breath and one dark fellow with dreadlocks snickered and made towards her with lascivious eyes.

"Don't touch 'er!" The wooden-eyed fellow said and the dark one stopped, tossing him a confused snarl. "It'll be the worse for us." He rolled his good-eye back to Evie and stared at her with a curiously dead expression. "Let 'er find 'er own fate with the Cap'n'."

And though they all continued to glare at her with murderous intent, they drew back and let her pass, not thinking to ask what it was Evie clutched so tight against her bosom in a little green purse. And though Evie knew they would continue to strip each room and brutalise the whores they found sleeping there, Evie did not tell them either, for her business was with their Captain, and it had nothing to do with the medallions.

Outside on the streets it was pandemonium. The sun had slowly begun to set, disregarding the wretched scene completely, going about its tradition with indefatigable intent. Men lay groaning and wounded, or completely still and in abnormal positions in the dust and muck, Whores and wenches shrieked and ran for cover in taverns and boarding houses. Amongst it all, the crew of the Black Pearl – a group of a mere thirty men – wreaked havoc, setting fires, breaking windows, doors, carriages, shooting randomly into the crowd and violently bringing down women in the middle of the streets. Buildings were sacked, their contents torn apart and strewn about, what meagre valuables as existed in Tortuga were taken and gun powder was lit in their place so that the air rang with explosions and Evie's eyes streamed water and her throat burned from the stench and acrid smoke. But she kept on, ducking and darting through the alleyways, keeping as close to the walls and buildings as possible, taking advantage of the late afternoon's long shadows for concealment while she surveyed the hurly burly for one familiar figure, the purse of medallions growing heavier in her hands with each street corner empty of him.

Then finally, at the junction by an old, disused well, where once she had seen him fight before, his tall and regal silhouette appeared from the smoke, striding forward with unflinching surety, his blade swishing through the air to clang hard against the axe-handle that was wielded against him by the publican of the Mermaid's Tail. The unfortunate fellow was disarmed, then Barbossa swung again, slashing him through so that he seemed to first hover in the air before crashing hard to the dirt, blood spattering around him. Barbossa did not blink, did not smile or grimace, merely turned and continued in his purposeful stride, his mouth set in one hard, straight line, and Evie felt her stomach clench, her head swim even as she propelled herself forward, straight towards him, leaping over a crumpled body, her cloak falling from her shoulders so that her hair tumbled out, catching the last dying rays of the setting sun, the hand that held the purse slowly unfurling from her side, proffering it toward Barbossa.

With a cruelly vacant gaze, Barbossa withdrew his pistol, cocked it and aimed in her direction. Evie stopped mid-step, her heart leaping upwards to obstruct her throat. Is this how it would end then, he would shoot her down on the street as though she were a stranger to him? Was this what it would all come to. Evie wavered, her plea for mercy dying on her lips, her eyes swimming with scalding tears. Then Barbossa fired and there was a grunt and a thump in the dust behind her and Evie whirled on her heels to behold a scarred and grimy fellow bearing a hatchet, evidently intended for her neck, clutching his chest and grimacing.

She turned back to Barbossa, who continued to advance, holding the smoking weapon aloft, his eyes hard and expressionless upon her although the merest sneer curled his lip. She rather thought it would be wise to run, but found she could not, that she could not summon courage even to scream.

He came to a halt a few paces from her and lowered the pistol, tucking it back into his belt, even as the fellow he shot staggered to his feet and, throwing his Captain a puzzled glare, took up his hatchet to bring misery elsewhere.

Cocking his head he looked her up and down and when he spoke his voice was low and coarse: "A wise girl would be mindin' herself and findin' a secure place to hide about now, Missy."

She dared instead to blink and the tears that had risen to her eyes when she thought she was about to die slipped over her lower lids with relief to roll down her cheeks. No more followed them and she gazed back at him intently.

"You know my name." She said firmly. "You've known it a long time."

And his lip twisted into a cynical smile and she heard the whisper of what might've been a laugh.

"A very long time." He affirmed. "But I've not much use for time nor history these days, Evie."

She blanched a little, but then straightened her shoulders and looked him firm in the eye, though it hurt her to do so for she could see nothing there that called to mind the charismatic pirate Captain that had so thrilled the days of her youth, the man who had kissed her so tenderly and so often on long, sultry nights so that her head was filled with thoughts of him long after he'd gone. Best she get this over with quickly, then.

"Thought these might be of use to you." She said, voice harsh, and thrust the purse of medallions in his direction.

He cocked a brow but did not take his gaze from hers, holding it still in an unyielding stance as he reached out a long arm and plucked the purse from her hands with begrimed though elegant fingers. Working it open, he delved in a hand and withdrew a medallion, holding it up level to his eye, where it caught the orange sunglow and flamed bright, dazzling them both. And though she had to squint, she caught the way his expression altered, the merest ripple of astonishment temporarily smoothing out his crows' feet, the light that sparked in his eye.

"Been keepin' 'em safe for you." She offered as an abrupt explanation and he snapped his head to her, keeping his countenance stiff and hard as though he feared what he might reveal if he did not keep a close hold on himself. "Ain't you goin' to say thank you?" And it might've been pert or cheeky in years gone past, now it sounded only bitter and weary.

But Barbossa smiled again as the last of the sun disappeared over the bridge and the buildings, both of them bathed momentarily in the final blood red haze, and Evie felt she might collapse to see the fire it set in his hair and beard, and in the yellowed depths of his eyes, crumble wretchedly at this final bright flash of what she had lost.

"Ah, ye cannot know, ye cannot, what it means to be within mere inches of ye and not even able to catch the scent of ye upon the breeze. To see ye here before me, so very, very close – " and he enunciated the words heavily " – and know it will never be close enough. That to touch ye, will be to want to crawl deep inside of ye, to feel it like an itch, grippin' me right through, suffocatin' me." And suddenly there was such longing on his face, Evie thought she could almost feel it herself, the pained desperation that creased his brows and trembled on his lips as he took another step forward, a hand wavering inches from her hair as though he feared she would vanish if he dared touch. She burned to touch him, but dared not, feeling the closeness of him as keenly as a wound driven deep into her breast. His voice was a mere whisper as he spoke now, eyes flickering wretchedly over her face.

"Try though I might I cannot recall the taste of yer lips, the scent of yer hair or the sensation of bein' deep within ye, and I have tried, wench, I have tried. Lost, it be, lost to time, lost to another life. Where once I could delight in the very peal of yer laughter, now I fear it would merely madden me."

And he snatched his hand back just as Evie thought it would betray him and delve into her hair. She gasped, started forward to grasp him and he fixed his face into one of such hardness that she felt it pierce her right to the very core. His longing was once more masked, what glimmer of tenderness that flickered there had been once again stifled and now he looked merely cold and savage.

"There be more bitterness now than anythin' else when I look at ye." His eyes dragged icily over her face before he tore them away, jaw clenching. "And of late I have taken to destroyin' that which I can no more have."

Evie's own gaze tumbled over him desperately, wanting to entreat him if there nothing left of her, nothing at all that could spark pleasure in his heart But then she saw the violent tremble of his hands, their knuckles near-splitting with the ferociousness of his clench as they hovered at his belt, and she let her own hands fall idle by her side, her heart thudding dully in her breast. She lifted a teary gaze to his face once more, to the aged and rougueish face with its scar and thousands of tiny wrinkles and aristocratic nose, wanting just once more to see some spark of that old pirate lord twinkle at her amid the dust and the blood. Under the weight of her gaze he slid his eyes back to her, a muscle moved in his jaw and he narrowed his lids viciously.

"So get out of me sight." He barked and she leapt back a little at the savageness in his voice, but staring at him still, not wanting this to the last way she ever saw him, yet not able to tear her eyes away. "Now." he spat. And his hand was on his sword.

So finally, she turned on her heel and left him there. She did not run, or even hurry, she was too sick at heart to rouse such decisiveness from her limbs, which were heavy with sorrow and a splintering pain that locked her joints. The pirates of the Black Pearl were wrapping up their affairs, hurtling back towards the docks with whoops and bellows of triumph, leaving behind them a torn and broken town to be put back together. Evie was alone on the streets but for the injured and dying bodies that littered the way, the air still smoky from gunfire and blazes and the smell of blood tangy in her nostrils. She did not stop to enquire or offer assistance to any who moaned or wept, but kept her path, arms hugging herself against the deep chill she felt. And though within her heart was splintering in a way that it seemed to send up a scream that rang in her ears, she kept her head held high and no tear fell from her eye.

Behind her, Barbossa stood in the twilight, alone with a purse of Aztec gold and blood on his sword, and twining around his fingertips, where they had clung after being freed from the bindings that tied together the purse, were a few stray strands of red hair.


	15. Epilogue

When Evie turned thirty-one, she rather thought it might be time to leave Tortuga, though the thought was a troublesome one to her. There did not seem overmuch reason for staying these days and she knew the cocoa leaf was slowly killing her in her boredom. Perhaps on another shore, where she was a new face with new prospects, she could kick the habit and just drink herself to death instead. The hacking cough she'd picked up in the last couple of years was painful, and not exactly erotic and though every whore down the docks had some ailment or another and the lads didn't mind so much, Evie minded.

It was a brilliant morning in Tortuga, the sky a luscious periwinkle blue speckled with plump clouds like new-spun fleece, the sun high but not fierce and the water twinkling brilliantly beneath it, green and gold as far as the eye could see. Evie was awake, for sleep would elude her an hour or two yet, and sat down in the sand, away from the wharves with her shoes and stockings balled up beside her, scrunching her toes in the damp, white earth. Off to her right, the wharves stretched out like long fingers into the sea and the piers they jutted from were enjoying a mild flurry of activity with a few traders flogging their wares. Not much for Evie there – she'd already looked. Most of it salted meat and spices.

Tortuga just wasn't the same old port anymore. Oh it was still jolly enough and Evie made enough to cover her expenses and keep herself comfortable besides, but the whole place seemed to have lost its fire and be more a haven to reprobates and has-beens than to cheering shiploads of pirates with pockets bursting gold. Evie had to work twice as hard and see twice as many gents these days to make the same amount and it was an annoyance to be sure, not to mention painful and things hadn't been entirely right with her since the botched abortion.

Besides, there was a mere handful of the old crew about now. Everyone else had long nicked off, or were in the habit of staying only a few weeks before setting off to do same elsewhere, and nearly all the old camaraderie had been lost as a consequence. Time was, a whore of Tortuga looked out for her fellows and you could always count on a girl to shout you a rum if you got belted. Now, a girl was just as likely to trip you up and pilfer your biter while she was at it.

Maybe somewhere else she could get a place of her own (she'd saved so hard, after all!) and establish herself as a companion to older gents, build up a little coterie that she would see, four or five of them once a week maybe. Gents like the odd fellow who sometimes still found his way to Tortuga and wanted little more than a pretty face and sympathetic ear and was more than happy to pay generously for it. But no fucken sailors! Proper gents. She'd have to find a respectable town for that, which would mean she'd have to do herself over to suit. Evie picked up a sliver of driftwood that had been entangled in a clump of pungent seaweed and traced in the sand with it. Wasn't it about time she had a bit of an adventure herself, after all? All these years listening to the adventures of other people and she'd never had one herself. She wondered what her furniture would bring, in particular those mirrors. Everything else in Tortuga might've depreciated (including a whore's cunny!) but she'd warrant they'd at least still be worth a pretty penny.

Evie sighed, and uncorked her gin bottle for a swig, sweeping her hair from her face and squinting in the sunlight. What would her mum say to see Tortuga now!

Far off in the horizon, a ship entered the port of Tortuga with such an air of levity it was positively palpable. Its sails billowed joyously, its stern rose from the waves as though swollen with triumph. It stirred Evie just to behold its merry procession along the water towards the docks, but it lifted her to her feet to see that the ship had black sails. The Black Pearl!

Evie was up and hurtling towards the docks then without pausing long enough to replace either stockings or shoes. Her bare feet thumped in the sand as she reached the wharves and climbed up onto the pier, darting through the stacked up wares and arguing bodies as The Pearl did not drop anchor a mile out, or even half-mile out, but sailed in steady and sure, straight alongside one of the wharves where she was roped in tight by sailors who leapt from her decks. A small crowd began to gather to see it, wearing a collective expression of astonishment, and Evie caught them up, elbowing her way through their sweating and grimy bodies, reaching the very outskirts of the Pearl's dock as the plank was lowered and dropped and from the Pearl's shadowy belly emerged, all pomp and brass and clearly enjoying to the utmost the drama of his arrival, Jack Sparrow.

Evie pulled up short upon sight of him, unable to conceal the staggering shock she felt; her jaw gaped open and her eyes bulged and she was barely able to stifle a cry. It would not matter if she hadn't, for everyone about her let out a similar gasp and Jack paused in his step and raised his hands to them.

"Yes, gents and ladies, questionable or otherwise," he declared grandly, "Captain Jack Sparrow returns to you all, restored once more as the rightful owner of my beautiful ship and having wreaked vengeance most triumphant and terrible upon the scabrous devils what so heinously mutinied on me some ten years ago! But that!" And here Jack snapped up a finger, a gold-toothed grin splitting his face. "Is a tale for the taverns! Join us, won't you!" And Jack tossed back the tails of his overcoat and set forth with a flourish down the wharf, the smiling but somewhat dazed members of his crew scurrying after him and after some excited exchanged glances, the sailors, pirates and whores that surrounded them left what they were doing and followed.

"Did ye rid yerself of that shot then, Jack?" A toothless and hunched fellow lisped over his bottle of rum and Jack tipped his hat and near-tittered. As he drew closer, Evie dropped back amongst the spectators on the pier. She did not think he had seen her yet.

"Aye! Indeed I did, my good man. Straight into the black heart of the scoundrel what first gave it to me."

And Evie felt her own heart clutch and rise to her throat.

Then Jack and his admirers were passing swiftly by, but not so swift that Jack did not have time to glance directly at her and drop her a wink with a half-tipped smile, not once hesitating or breaking his stride, but turning then back toward the town leaving exclamations of astonishment and speculation in his wake.

Evie felt herself sway a little where she stood, the voices around her blurring to an incessant drone and she grasped for her gin bottle. A swig steadied her; her vision stilled and she hemmed in her throat and glanced about her at a near empty pier as one by one the pirates gave into their curiosity and made off after Jack and his crew. And The Pearl – there she rested in her dock, looking as proud of herself as could be and Evie felt a stab drive through her heart, so fierce that it left her gasping and clutching at her breast. It ricocheted through her body for several long moments before finally subsiding to a dull sting and Evie gripped a nearby post for support.

Barbossa was dead then. She knew it, though the exchanges between Jack and the others had been cryptic to her ears, still she knew what they had meant. He was dead, her much beloved and much mourned Captain – brought down by the hand of a fey and fanciful charlatan.

Numbly, she turned on her heel and walked back down, off the pier and onto the sand, wandering further and further from the town. He was truly gone and she realised, as her body trembled with the ache of his loss, that she had been waiting still. That there had been some part of her left that believed he would return to her as he had been of old, smiling and jovial, delighting in all sensual pleasures of the flesh and desirous of her to partake in them with him. That he would kiss and sweep her into his arms and the years that she had lost him would be swept away as easily as flotsam on the tide and she would once again know true rapture, true pleasure and true contentment in his arms. But he was dead.

And Evie came to a stop and looked out across the sea to where the foam-capped waves rose and fell endlessly, tireless and never ceasing, her toes caked in sand and her gin bottle dangling from her fingertips. The sky did not darken, the sun did not fall and the seas did not boil or froth. There was nothing to mark this moment but the harrowing pain that reverberated throughout her soul, silent yet echoing.

And Evie, one of the last true whores of Tortuga, dropped her gin bottle to the sand where it clunked into a patch of seaweed, and wept.


	16. Author's Note

The Briar and The Rose is done; at 87,000 words it turned out to be far more mammoth a project than I had anticipated, time-consuming and self-indulgent, but one that I very much enjoyed pursuing nonetheless.

I know the story's faults; where it is too fan-fictiony, too Mary-Sueish.

Were I to do a massive and highly critical edit I could find a lot to change, I'm sure.

Things did not happen quite as I had originally planned. Initially, Evie and Jack were intended to have next to no interaction at all, apart from Evie seeing him about on Tortuga a bit. She ended up playing an instrumental role in his and Barbossa's meeting which would be intolerable to some readers, being far too cliché. But I like it.

The story also ended up being more a series of character vignettes, rather than a plot-driven tale, and originally, I had intended there to be more of a plot beneath it all, involving that mysterious little box that comes into Barbossa's possession.

It ends up being an odd little flyaway with no real purpose, and that is my fault for I thought I would gain more of a readership if I gave it some plot rather than just making it a relationship story.

A work this mammoth, based around one of the characters who, if not unpopular is certainly not popular on the level of Jack or Will, and involving an original character, is never going to get a big readership anyway, so in the end I hope I gain the readers who are interested in the type of tale it tells.

Because I have grown very fond of my story though I never intended to, in spite of all its faults. And I love Evie and I love the relationship she has with Barbossa, though it would be dissatisfying to many. I tried to be truthful and create an authentic world and a genuine and realistic relationship between them with a three-dimensional, multi-faceted character.

I hope that some people will read it all the way through and that the enjoy it and see that spark of honesty in it, despite its flaws, and that it will be considered kindly as a standard of fanfiction that is high within the Barbossa fandom.

To stop writing about Evie and Barbossa now is a little painful, I must confess. Their story has become quite real to me.

But I knew when I set out to do it that it would come to an end, and how it would end.

Thank you for being with me on this journey, it's certainly been an adventure. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking with it, for being patient enough and interested enough and, if you dropped a review, generous enough for sharing your thoughts. I wrote this story largely for my own amusement but it would be a lie to say I do not long for readers, because I do, and the fact that you take time from your lives to pay some attention to my story is incredibly meaningful and I thank you deeply and joyously.


	17. Author's Note 2011

Welcome to new readers!

It seems another lifetime ago since I wrote this fiction but it sure has been fun to stroll down memory lane.

I hope that you enjoyed it - all you diehard PoTC fans, whether reading it for the first time or revisiting - and all you newly forged fans too!

If you enjoyed this fiction, please do be sure to read its sequel 'The Last Rose of Summer', which was written after _At World's End_.

I personally loved Barbossa's treatment in this film - although it was a bit of a scary start - and felt it gave him far more his due than _At World's End_ - which gave him a few good moments, but on the whole did not live up to the character established in _Curse of the Black Pearl_. Barbossa should not be reduced to comic-relief and while _On Strange Tides_ still did not capture his menace fully (I think they down-played it in the last two films to allow for the central villains to be scarier, but in my opinion, Barbossa tops them both, especially as he has no reliance on a gimmicky attribute!), it certainly heeded far more his skill and brilliance. He definitely deserved more screentime but Geoffrey Rush's consummate performance ensured he ruled in every scene that was his. Maybe one day they'll make a film where he finally gets a love interest of his own. Dare to dream!

Please do leave a review and let me know what you think! These fics are old now, by my standards, but I still have a fondness for them - and hope you do too! 3


End file.
